


Something Under the Sand

by anniewritesaboutstars



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - The Mummy Fusion, American Grantaire, Blushing Enjolras, British Enjolras, Courfeyrac is Jonathan, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Courfeyrac are best friends, Enjolras is Evelyn, Enjolras is a librarian, Enjolras releases a freaking mummy, Grantaire has an obsession with calling Enjolras angel, Grantaire is Rick O'Connell, It's the Mummy AU no one asked for, LIBRARIAN APPRECIATION, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Combeferre, Pining Courfeyrac, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Protective Grantaire, They're so close they call each other brothers, action and adventure, be prepared for lots of librarian appreciation, but they are so important, but wildly historically inaccurate, grantaire is a badass, like seriously those people are so underappreciated in the world of academia, who kind of has a bit of a leadership role, who studies Egyptology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniewritesaboutstars/pseuds/anniewritesaboutstars
Summary: In 1926, Egyptologist and librarian Enjolras has found himself in possession of a special box that, when opened, is found to contain a map leading to the infamous city of Hamunaptra, a city said to hide secrets and gold. With the help of his best friend-turned-brother Courfeyrac, his ex-professor Combeferre, a band of American explorers, and a rugged adventurer Enjolras is NOT falling in love with, he makes the journey to the city that archaeologists, historians, and Egyptologists have only ever dreamed of seeing. But when Enjolras reads from the Book of the Dead and accidentally ends up bringing to life a nearly three thousand year old mummy foretold to bring about the end of the world, he finds that bigger things may be at stake. Now, in a race against time, he'll have to stop the curse of the mummy and save the world, all while maybe falling in love with the dashing adventurer Grantaire.Or, a Mummy AU where Enjolras is Evelyn, Grantaire is Rick O'Connell, and adventure is seemingly the best breeding ground for romance.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 124





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I wasn't too sure about posting this work, but then I thought, I already wrote it so why not? I guess I'm just not too sure about my writing here. But oh well, here we are :/
> 
> For those reading my Ever After AU, never fear, that has NOT been abandoned! Considering these are all already completed fics, it's not like they could be abandoned anyways, actually...
> 
> Note: Like my Ever After AU, this fic is also highly inaccurate, and for the same reason. It is set in a world where being LGBTQ+ is accepted, which, in the actual 1920's, would be inaccurate. However, I will make a note here acknowledging that those of the LGBTQ+ community have always been around, and the struggle (that unfortunately is still going on) for acceptance and rights is very much real, and to not mention so would be erasure, which is something that needs to be avoided. Also, I'm pretty sure the slang and style of the 1920's is WAY different from the way written here so, that's inaccurate. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters belong to Les Miserables, the storyline and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.) 
> 
> Alright, I guess I'm uploading this. Let me know what you think. Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> If you've decided to give this fic a chance, thank you!
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_2134 BC_

Egypt is an ancient land. Beneath it's sands, it holds both treasures and travesties alike. Gold, mummies, jewels—everything one could probably expect from the three thousand year old civilization. It was what tourists came for. 

However, for the more ambitious treasure seeker, or the passionate archaeologist, Egypt held more than that. For those such people, they chased great legend, and one such legend was the whispers that there was something of great import in the sand. There was something under the sand.

In Thebes, Pharaoh Seti I's crown jewel, glittering gold of his kingdom, the Pharaoh's paramour played lover to another. While in the daylight he remained steadfastly loyal to his lord, by nightfall his bed was in that of the Pharaoh's high priest, Imhotep, and while they maintained all forms of caution, nothing remained hidden in Egypt for long. Perhaps under Khonsu's sole rule they may have been able to get away with it, but the secret stolen looks would not go unnoticed under the watchful eye of Amun-Ra.

To steal away the Pharaoh's paramour was an act of betrayal enough; to slay him when he found out was treason. 

The Pharaoh's lover—Metjen—committed suicide when he had been thrown in front of the court to answer for his traitorous actions. As punishment for his crimes, Metjen's body was cursed to the dark underworld, and the man made to perform the deed had been the high priest himself. From _The Book of the Living,_ he chanted an incantation that would forever banish his spirit to suffer in hell. His body was mummified and in five sacred canopic jars bejeweled with marks of the wealth of Egypt, his vital organs were stored away.

When his body was buried, the slaves who had done the work had been killed too, as to ensure that no one would find the burial location. 

Distraught, in the dead of the night, Imhotep raced to the lands of Hamunaptra where another book, one more dangerous than the other, was hidden inside of a statue of Anubis. _The Book of the Dead,_ said to contain unholy chants made to bring back one's spirit from the dead, was what he had opened, using his unique key, as he had his priests scour out the location of Metjen's body and dug up, alongside the jars with his organs, to be brought to him. 

To attempt to defy the gods was not a jest taken lightly; the end result could only result in cruel suffering. 

As the spirit of his beloved _just_ started to return to his lifeless body, they were discovered by the sworn protectors of Egypt—warriors who called themselves the _Medjai._ While his junior priests were simply mummified, Imhotep was given special punishment for his transgressions; he was forced to suffer the deadliest of the Egyptian curses—the Hom-Dai. It was a curse so deadly, it had never been performed before, and according to those who knew the sworn secrets of the land, it was also the last time the words to the chant were uttered. Tongue cut, mummified alive, and buried with the sacred scarab beetles, Imhotep was curse to forever live in agony as the undead, and, as part of his curse, the beetles shared the same fate.

The Medjai warriors, in bid to ensure Imhotep was never found and released, took on an oath to forever guard the sands of Hamunaptra. They buried the unique lock forged, that would open both his sarcophagus and the forbidden part of _The Book of the Dead,_ and had Imhotep's sarcophagus buried where no one would go looking.

Within the ranks of magicians and the Medjai, whispers of what were to happen if Imhotep were to be released grew, and in unorthodox fashion, everyone of these rumours were true.

For were Imhotep to be released, he would rise a plague upon humanity, an unholy flesh eater who would bring about the world's ruin through the Ten Plagues of Egypt and his unholy alliance with his resurrected lover Metjen. Armed with the strength of ages past, power over the sands, and invincibility, he would invariably result in the end of the world. 

And so the Medjai stand in guard of Hamunaptra. In 2134 B.C, Imhotep was buried, believed to never return again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year before Enjolras holds the map to Hamunaptra in his hands, someone else finds it first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers,
> 
> Here's another chapter uploaded at the same time so we can at least see one of our characters now. Also, I'm aware that the action writing is terrible, I KNOW, I really should take a workshop on how to write proper action someday. Just bear with me I guess?
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_4125 years later- 1925 AD Egypt_

To anyone else, Grantaire's life would sound like a dream. Or well, at least the way he described it to those willing to listen at the bar—and who wouldn’t want to listen to the words of a young, rugged explorer who told tales of fantastic journeys, daring gunfights, brave saves, and hasty romances? To the rest, Rene Grantaire was quite the man. 

At the present moment, however, he was sure that while he was desperate to trade places with just about anyone else and escape this blasted situation, most people would be fine and quite content with their own lives. 

And thus continued the life of Grantaire, explorer extraordinaire in stories, tired, honest to God done-with-everything-in-life-and-could-really-just-use-a-drink in reality. 

From where he took shelter behind a mass of boulders and rocks, he watched as the Bedouin warriors clashed with the soldiers of his legion, a clang of swords, a symphony of bullets as they warred in the desert sand of Egypt. 

Specifically, in the sands of Hamunaptra, Egypt. 

_I knew this was going to be a lousy day. But then again, which day isn’t?_

“Personally, I would like to surrender. Why can’t we just surrender?”

Grantaire jumped. Scowling, he turned to look at the man beside him. 

“Shut up, Thenardier.” How the man managed to make it through training and join the ranks of the French Foreign Legion was as mystifying a mystery today as it had been the first time Grantaire had met the rat of man. “Give me your bandolier.” 

With quick movements, the man pulled off his cartridge belt and handed it to him; he crossed it over his own. “Listen, Grantaire: you’re a smart man. Let’s run away. We can still make it.” 

“Gimme your revolver, too,” he stuck out his hand, ignoring what Thenardier had said, and keeping his eyes on the battlefield in front of him. 

“Maybe we could play dead? It’s so ridiculous, that it’s unexpected.” Thenardier handed him his pistol.

“Good. Now, fetch me a big stick, will ya?”

At this, Thenardier gave him a confused look. “A stick? In the desert? What for?”

Grantaire turned to look him dead in the eyes. “So I can tie it to your back. You seem to be lacking a spine.” In front of them, the enemy warriors thundered across the land, striking down hundreds of legionnaires. Thenardier took up an affronted expression as he and Grantaire took their chance and bolted across the clearing. 

_Run run run._

"How’d a guy like you even end up in the legion?” he yelled over the sounds of screams and swords. Thenardier looked disgruntled. 

“Was caught stealing from a synagogue. Lots of good stuff in them holy places; churches, mosques, temples. And best of all—who guards them?” 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow as he ducked and stabbed a man from behind. “Altar boys?” 

Thenardier grinned wolfishly. “Exactly! I speak seven languages—” _And yet you can’t spell correctly in any single one_ “—including Hebrew, so my specialty was synagogues.” 

“HELP!”

Grantaire drew his pistol and aimed for a man grappling with a legion soldier. 

“What about you? Kill somebody?” Thenardier asked, before he tripped up and took Grantaire out from behind, sending them crashing into the sand,

Grantaire turned to look at him, eye twitching. “No. But I’m really considering it.

“RUN FOR IT!”

Grantaire cursed. The sounds of screams grew louder, and the only path right now was down the ramp outside the gate of the holy city he should have known better than to march for. Grabbing onto the man’s hand, he made a mad dash down the slope. 

“Well what then? Robbery? Extortion? Kidnapping?” 

“None of the above!” he shouted as they picked up speed.

Thenardier shot him an incredulous look. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Grantaire turned and gave him a tight smile. “I was just looking for a good time, and there didn't seem to be any bottle around.” 

Behind them, the legion seemed to have divided in two: one section stood to be slaughtered by the warriors as they attempted to fight back. The other turned tail and started running for the hills. Without their Captain—without Grantaire—the rank had dissolved and the fight turned to a lost battle. He cursed his twisted ankle; maybe he could still lead while injured? But no, the colonel had pushed him to leave for a reason. 

“FIRE!”

Whipping around, his eyes widened as he caught sight of about a dozen warriors all gathered a few paces away from him, their weapons trained on you’ll never guess who. 

“Shit.”

Grunting from the onslaught of pain from putting pressure on his ankle, he turned and made a mad dash for cover, but not before turning to grab Thenardier and pull him along. 

His waving arm grasped air. 

He turned; Thenardier was no longer there. 

“You rat bastard,” he cursed under his breath. Glancing up at the top of the hill, he spotted the man inside the infamous temple. 

_BOOM!_

“SHIT!” he screamed. The warriors had missed him by one inch.

Heart pounding, he raced across the battlefield and up the hill, all too aware of the growing sound of hooves on sand approaching closer behind him.

_BOOM!_

“GODDAMMIT STOP SHOOTING!”

He felt his breath go faint. How long had he been running? How hard had he been running? The goddamn temple seemed to be getting further away the closer he came.

_A drink. I really need a drink after this._

There! It was right there! The temple, just a few feet away—!

Inside, Thenardier grunted as he tried to use the boulder in front to close up the temple entrance. What the hell?

“Thenardier! What the hell are you doing! Wait up!”

Thenardier sneered. “I told you to run before.”

Behind him, the sounds of bullets and horses drew closer. He was so close, so, so close.

“Thenardier don’t you dare close that door!” The man grunted in response. Grantaire stuck his arm out in warning as he pushed himself to run faster, just a little faster, he was so close. “Thenardier!”

In response to his resolved efforts to speed up, so did Thenardier. Pushing harder, he moved the sandstone boulder faster. A sliver of the inside of the temple could be seen. Grantaire pushed faster.

“THENARDIER DON’T YOU DARE CLOSE THAT DOOR!” Just a couple more steps, he was so close, he was there, he made a mad dive—

_SMACK!_

Thenardier gave one last shove, and Grantaire slammed into solid rock. Vision swimming from the impact, he growled and banged hard against the boulder. Nothing. 

Gritting his teeth, he let out a scream of frustration. “I’m gonna get you for this you rat bastard!”

Behind him, the sounds of hooves pounding on land grew closer, and, cursing, Grantaire accepted he had no choice but to cut a path around them and attempt the dash across the warring sand dunes once more. 

_BOOM!_

Yelping, he weaved around the men, who startled and attempted a turn around with their horses. But he was quickly running out of breath, the legionnaires who remained had all been cut down, and he was surrounded. He cursed once more as he ran smack into a statue. A dead end. Behind him, the sounds of horses and guns drew but a breath away. 

Sighing, he decided it’d be better simply to accept his fate rather than hope for some miraculous rescue. It wasn’t as if the metaphysical concept of hope would fly down on wings and save his soul. 

Turning, he assessed the situation in front of him. Surrounded by a dozen warriors or so, all with their rifles aimed at him.

Grantaire supposed he should feel honoured. All this trouble, for him! It was nice to be wanted.

Well, if he was going to go down like this, might as well go down with a statement. Back to the statue, he raised his hands in the air. Then he flipped the men off. 

It was at that moment the horses went berserk. 

Screeching, hooves in the air, throwing riders off, trampling them underneath, something scared the horses off, enough for them to turn and run for the hills. Screaming, the warriors, seemingly having forgotten about Grantaire, chased madly after their steeds. 

Grantaire breathed hard and stared incredulously. Cautiously, he raised his hands and looked upon them in wonder. He didn’t exactly believe in magic, but… 

From the corner of his eye, a glint of gold caught his attention. Stooping, he pulled at a triangle corner. From the sand, out popped… well, Grantaire wasn't exactly sure what it was. He turned it over in his hands. It looked to be some sort of a… puzzle box? It had a peculiar star shape to it. 

Huh.

It had to have some value, right?

He pocketed it. 

As he made to congratulate himself for his sudden victory—huh, maybe hope did have some power after all—he felt a chill race its way up his spine. Something in the air… something wasn’t right… 

He turned and inspected the statue behind him. A muscular body with the head of a dog. Seemed normal enough for Egypt. And yet something about it’s eyes. They seemed… dark and lifeless. Come to think of it, now that he was here, the entire land seemed the same way. As if there was something… strange. 

Grantaire shook his head and scoffed inwardly. Yeah, right. He didn’t believe in such idiocy. 

Beneath him, the sand began to shift. Breath catching, he slowly backed away without taking his eyes off of the ground, which rapidly began to transfigure into something else, without the help of any wind in the air. Eyes wide, he recognized the shape of a forming face, snakes and beetles seemingly embedded into what appeared to become a more solid head.

Gulping, he thought, _well, it never did anyone any harm to have a bit of a self preservation instinct. A healthy dose of fear is nothing to be ashamed of._

Whipping around, he screamed and ran for the hills. 

Even skeptics have their limits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, we'll get to see Enjolras and Courfeyrac! Stick around!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet our protagonist, his brother, and the man his brother may or may not be crushing hard on. Discoveries are made and bones are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> I had fun writing Enjolras and Courfeyrac here in this chapter. They're one of my favourite friendships so. Oh and also, I told you, this is really historically inaccurate like I don't think they had "parent-teacher interviews" back in the 1920's but this is an AU so like... 
> 
> Also, I have no medical knowledge, please do not ever take my word for medical advice. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_1 year later- 1926 AD, Cairo_

"Tuthmosis? Now how did you get up here?" With his large, round reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, Julien Enjolras balanced dangerously on the last wrung of a tall ladder as he attempted to reach up for a book that clearly wasn't where it should be. Deep in the library of Cairo's Museum of Antiquities, Enjolras worked and worked and _worked_ everyday to try and keep the museum library organized and tidy, but whenever he would return the next morning after a hard day of restacking bookshelves, he always found at least one book or document in the wrong place.

It frustrated him to no end. 

As best as he could, Enjolras leaned his body over to the opposite shelf where the book belonged; he tried his best to reach his arm out and slide it into place, but his arm was much too short ( _another perk,_ he thought with a sigh, _of being shorter and smaller than average)_ to do so. Carefully, he leaned just far enough that his body could face the other way without the ladder he was standing on moving away. When he was able to place the book on the shelf, he let out a small victory cry. 

That's when the ladder decided to shift away from where it was already so-dangerously leaned up against the shelf. He sucked in a gasp as he dared a glance down from where he was standing so high in the air. 

_No no no no no._

Grabbing the ladder, Enjolras tried to get the wood to balance as he found himself completely vertical in the air, his breathing horribly shallow. With his every inhale and exhale, the ladder swayed on the spot. For a few seconds, he tried to still his breathing.

Then he felt himself tip sideways. 

"HELP!" he screamed as he began to stilt walk his way through the aisles, desperate not to fall. As he hung onto the ladder for dear life, Enjolras felt himself spinning out of control as the ladder finally lost balance and crashed into a bookshelf.

_Oh shit._

Enjolras screamed as he felt his body be thrown off onto the ground. There was a sickening crunch to his wrist; however, he had no time to deal with the sudden explosion of pain. He watched in horror as the bookshelf he had crashed into tipped over and crashed into the shelf opposite of it, and that shelf crash into the next until pretty soon the entire room looked like an enormous game of dominoes. Papers and books flew everywhere, and the commotion of it all drew out the Egyptian exhibition curator and Enjolras' boss, Monsieur Valjean. 

"What in God's name happened here?" Monsieur Valjean looked around the room in a mix of pity, shock, and exasperation. "Oh Enjolras, not again. How many times has it been this week?" Enjolras flushed in embarrassment as he slowly got back up on his feet, ignoring the violent throbbing in his left wrist that brought the prickle of tears to his eyes.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident," he mumbled. Monsieur Valjean raised an eyebrow at him.

“Rameses destroying Syria was an accident." _Again with the Biblical references,_ Enjolras thought. Before he had met his boss, he did not think it possible for someone to be such a devout Christian. With a tinge of amusement, he said, “I’m quite sure five times doesn’t exactly qualify it as an accident anymore." 

From the exhibition walked in Monsieur Fauchelevent, a man who was supposedly cousins with Monsieur Valjean. He took one wide-eyed look around the room before turning furiously on his heel. “You! Boy! Again?” Enjolras opened his mouth to answer and perhaps say, _yes, me, is there a problem,_ (living with Courfeyrac did mean adopting a bit of his personality) but the man beat him to it. “Sons of the Messiah! Give me frogs, flies, locusts! Anything but this! Compared to you, the plagues were a joy!” While he wanted to do nothing more than tell him that this wasn’t even his museum or job to look after, he thought it wiser if he perhaps just kept his mouth shut. “All you ever do is give Monsieur Valjean here—” he briefly wondered why a man would refer to his cousin as _Monsieur_ — “trouble, something a man as good and honest like him does not deserve. Why do we even put up with you?" 

Monsieur Valjean shot his cousin a reproachful look. “It’s really no harm. The boy made a mistake, that’s all. And he really is quite brilliant.” While the sentiment was appreciated, Enjolras didn’t need someone to defend him. He knew his worth, he could defend himself. 

Enjolras closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing his voice to remain calm and even. "You put up with me because I can read and write ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphics and hieratics, and I'm the only person within a thousand miles who knows how to properly code and catalogue this entire library," he explained.

Monsieur Fauchelevent scowled. "No, we put up with you because we're obligated to; your parents were such generous patrons, God rest their souls." Enjolras resisted the urge to roll his eyes at this. Really, he couldn't give less of a shit what his parents did for the museum. After all, they never donated out of the goodness of their hearts, they would only do so to look better in their elite social circles. Besides, as far as he's concerned, his real parents were the late Monsieur and Madame de Courfeyrac. 

Monsieur Fauchelevent stormed out of the library, leaving behind his cousin and Enjolras. Valjean gave him a gentle smile, a sign to let Enjolras know that he wasn’t mad at him. In all honesty, he could never be; Monsieur Valjean was a kind man who always helped anyone and everyone out. He often allowed Enjolras to take books from the library home to better study, and called him his best help around. It simply wasn’t in his heart to get mad at him, especially not since he thought of the boy as a bit like his son, considering he was good friends with his daughter Cosette. "Enjolras, just get this cleaned up, please.” He took a deep breath, watching as Monsieur Valjean turned on his heel and walked out the room; he looked around the room, sighing in exhaustion. He winced as the throbbing in his left wrist got worse, and absentmindedly, he rubbed at it as he imagined himself anywhere but here. 

A sudden noise made him jump. Turning around, he ventured out a hesitant "Hello?" When he heard no reply, he nervously grabbed a torch and stepped out into the Egyptian exhibition of the museum. 

In the darkness, Enjolras wasn't able to make out a single detail, and in the deafening silence, the only noise he heard was his own breathing. Another sound had him turning around, heartbeat picking up. 

"Is anyone there?" he called out in fear. Once again, he heard the sound of faint shuffling feet. Hesitantly, he approached an old tomb. Now that he could see it more properly, Enjolras was able to make out that the tomb was open when it should have been shut. Curious, he peered inside. 

_BAM!_

All of a sudden, he found himself face to face with a screeching, rotting mummy. Screaming, he dropped the torch and staggered back, tripping over his feet and once again landing on his throbbing wrist, blinking back tears of pain as he looked up into a laughing face sitting in the tomb, looking down on him in glee. 

"Oh man, you should have seen your face!" Courfeyrac roared with laughter as he jumped out of the tomb to help the younger man back up. Purposefully, Enjolras offered up his right hand, hiding his now-mercilessly throbbing left wrist behind his back. He glared at him.

"Courfeyrac, you're—you're—" Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow up playfully.

"I'm what, Enjolras? An idiot? A fool? A lunatic? One would think that after having lived with me for seventeen of your twenty-two years you would have learned to diversify your vocabulary a bit." he teased. Enjolras shoved him as he took in the state the tomb and mummy were in. 

"Courfeyrac, have you no respect for the dead?" he hissed. Courfeyrac winked at him.

"I've got loads, considering I'll be joining them one day!" 

Enjolras huffed. "Yeah? Well I hope it's sooner than later, before you end up losing me my job!" Courfeyrac chuckled and drew him into a one armed embrace.

"Nonsense, Enj. You're one of the finest Egyptologists this museum has ever seen!" Enjolras sighed dejectedly

"Try telling that to the Bembridge Scholars. I've been rejected _again."_ He pushed his brother away. “Which means that this job is my only fall back, and your little shenanigans may end up losing me that too!" 

"My dearest baby brother, do not be so cross with me! It was merely a harmless prank!" Courfeyrac ruffled his hair. Glaring, Enjolras reached his right hand to attempt to smooth down his now-wild golden curls. 

"A prank that could have destroyed my career!" He scowled. "And I am _not_ your _baby_ brother." Courfeyrac laughed good-naturedly. 

"I don't know, Enj, that four year age gap seems pretty significant to me." Enjolras rolled his eyes. 

"It's only four years." 

"Ah-ah-ah!" Courfeyrac held up a finger to silence him. "Those four years means that while I was off at university as a _mature adult,_ you were still grappling with your jumbled up teenage emotions in the ninth grade. By that right, that makes you my baby brother." He pulled him back in to give him a noogie.

"Ugh, no, stop it Courf, let me go!" Enjolras brought his two hands up to defend his hair when he winced from the movement of his left wrist. At once, Courfeyrac let go of him and instead reached for his left wrist. When he attempted to pull away, Courfeyrac's grip on him tightened and his eyes stung with tears of pain.

"What happened here?" he asked in concern, eyeing the now-bruised and swelling wrist. Enjolras looked away sheepishly. 

"It's nothing," he mumbled. Courfeyrac looked at him, unimpressed. 

"Enjolras." 

He grimaced. "I fell from the top wrung of the ladder, and when I landed I stuck my hand out to break my fall." The older man looked at him, worried. 

"Enj, if you fell all the way from the top wrung and landed only on your wrist, you must have broken the bone." He glanced back down at the injury. "We should take you to see a doctor." Enjolras shook his head, eyes wide.

"I hardly think that'll be necessary. It doesn't even hurt that bad." Courfeyrac stared at him flatly and gingerly moved his wrist to the side, drawing out a startled cry. 

"'The pain isn't that bad' my ass," he heard Courfeyrac mutter under his breath. "Come on," he ordered, "we're going to go see someone about this." He began to drag Enjolras out by the other wrist. 

"Wait, who are we seeing?" he asked as he did his best to resist, which was proving to be quite difficult; though he didn't exactly have the buff muscles to show it, Courfeyrac was actually a lot stronger than people thought. Enjolras knew this well enough, considering he had been on the receiving end of that strength far too many times (Courfeyrac used this trait mercilessly to his advantage when he would often pin Enjolras to the ground and tickle him until he cried.)

Courfeyrac—and Enjolras did a double take to make sure what he saw the first time was real—blushed. "Well I'm quite sure Professor Combeferre is still awake at this time, so…" Enjolras snorted and smirked. So this is what this was all about then. Not that he doubted whether Courfeyrac was genuinely concerned about him—he knew he was—it was simply the fact that he could have taken him to anyone, like a real hospital or clinic, but instead, as always, he chose to go running towards Professor Combeferre's house. Professor Combeferre was a kindly twenty-seven year old Professor of Medicine who previously taught at the University of Cambridge where Enjolras, and a few years earlier, Courfeyrac, had studied. Back then he was in his first year of teaching when he met Enjolras, who was in his class simply because all first year arts and humanities students had to take at least one science course (and vice versa). Courfeyrac first met him when he had come to discuss Enjolras' performance in his class with him, something Enjolras argued vehemently against. 

_This is university Courf, not high school. There are no parent-teacher interviews!_ he had said.

 _That doesn't mean I can't schedule an appointment,_ Courf had snorted. _We need to talk about getting those grades of yours up._

Enjolras had felt humiliated the entire time they made the journey over to his Professor's office that day. 

That was, until he saw Courfeyrac walk into a wall upon first seeing Professor Combeferre. That was a memory he never let Courfeyrac live down. It was the first time Enjolras had ever seen the older man blush and stutter, tripping over his words when he usually was able to flirt with anything that even remotely moved, smoothly. Although, it really wasn’t a surprise, considering most of his class had fallen head-over-heels in love with their young Professor (something, though as smart as he was, the Professor remained completely oblivious to.)

A year before Enjolras graduated, the Professor had transferred to teach at the University of Cairo. The news had broken poor Courfeyrac's heart, until Enjolras announced that he had gotten a job at the library of the Cairo Museum of Antiquities, and eagerly moved along with Enjolras over to Egypt. 

"Ah, so we're going to see Professor Combeferre? Are you sure you don't want to give yourself an injury so he'll fret over you too? Or perhaps make yourself ill so that he'll take you to his bedside and nurse you back to health?" Enjolras teased. 

"Shut up Enj." 

The journey to the Professor's house did not take long; he lived on the campus of the university which had, for the sake of scholars, been built near the museum. A simple taxi ride later the pair found themselves knocking on the door of a cozy house nestled away from the student residences. 

"This really isn't necessary, Courf," Enjolras tried one last time as they waited outside the door.

"We've already made it all the way here, Enj. Don't wanna waste the taxi fare." 

The door swung open to reveal a tall brunet man with round glasses dressed in a cardigan. His brows furrowed as his eyes fell upon the guests outside his house. 

"Enjolras, Mr. Courfeyrac—"

"I thought I told you to just call me Courfeyrac," his brother blurted out. Enjolras subtly rolled his eyes and tried his best not to smile at the high pitch in which Courf had spoken in. The corner of the Professor's lip twitched. 

"I apologize, _Courfeyrac._ What are you two doing here so late?" Enjolras snorted and muttered _I have no clue_ under his breath. Courfeyrac jabbed him in the side and pulled up his wrist to show the Professor, Enjolras wincing as he did so. 

"Professor—"

"Just Combeferre is fine—"

"—I'm afraid little Enjolras' wrist here may be broken or sprained." Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Courfeyrac. _I am not little._ "I was hoping you would check it over for us." Courfeyrac's cheeks were flushed. The Professor eyed his wrist concernedly. 

"Yes of course, come in." It wouldn't be Enjolras' first time inside the Professor's house; he wasn't exactly the safest person alive. Every week resulted in some new injury, cut or illness, which meant every week Enjolras' brother found a new excuse to go visit. However, as many times as he had been there, his amazement at just how many books lined the walls there never faded away, and he worked at a library. Though Enjolras' own stack at home was quite impressive too, it was nowhere near as big as the Professor's was; hundreds of books about human anatomy and medicine were lying around, making him itch to organize them neatly on their shelves where they should be (he supposed it was his instinct as a librarian.) 

The Professor guided him over to sit on the couch while he gently examined his wrist; Courfeyrac remained standing next to him. 

Now that he had nothing to distract him, Enjolras noticed the pain in his wrist had become unbearably blinding. It throbbed mercilessly, and every gentle prod of the Professor's fingers or little movement of the bone had his eyes welling with tears. 

"I'm sure it's fine, Professor," he told him through a strangled whisper. The man raised an eyebrow and gently moved the joint. Enjolras cried out. 

"I really don't think so, Enjolras," he muttered. He left the room, returning a few moments later with a bag of ice. "Well, the good news is that the bone hasn't been displaced, so I won't have to reset it." At his words, Enjolras gave a teary smile. "However," he continued in a tone that made his heart sink, "the bone is broken, so you'll need to give it six to eight weeks to rest." 

Six to eight weeks? He didn't have time to rest for six to eight weeks! That would massively impede his work speed. He cleared his throat.

"Are you sure?" The Professor looked at him with raised brows.

"Yes Enjolras, I'm sure. And might I add that if you do not allow your wrist to heal properly it will lead to serious permanent damage. So I _will_ be checking in with you every week to make sure you take care of yourself," he told him with a glare. Then he glanced up at Courfeyrac. "I'm sure your brother will also do his part in ensuring you're taken care of properly." Courf's eyes went wide. 

"Of course—oh yes—you don't even have to worry about that—" As Courfeyrac continued to stutter, the Professor turned back to him and handed him the bag of ice. 

"Keep that on your wrist for fifteen minutes. I expect you to ice your wrist every two to three hours for the next week. When you sleep, keep your wrist elevated on a pillow above your heart. And do not put any undue stress on the healing joint,” he instructed as he gingerly wrapped the injury in a gauze cast. Enjolras swallowed and nodded obediently. 

“Professor, I will be able to work, right?” The man smiled at him softly. 

“I’m not your professor anymore, Enjolras. You know you can call me Combeferre, right? And to answer your question, yes you can work. But you cannot put any pressure on your wrist, so it’s better you slow down and work through things more carefully for these next few weeks. Is that clear?” he added with a stern look. Enjolras bowed his head and mumbled a sheepish _yes._

Satisfied, Professor Combeferre— _Combeferre_ — stood and smiled.

“Good.” He glanced over to where Courfeyrac stood, unknowingly staring. He cleared his throat. 

“Courfeyrac,” he started. Courf jolted out of his trance.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, yes?” he stuttered, cheeks reddening. The corner of Combeferre’s lips twitched again.

“Would you and Enjolras like to stay for dinner?” Just as Enjolras was about to tell him that dinner sounded lovely, Courfeyrac spoke up. 

“The offer is very much appreciated Professor—”

“ _Combeferre_ —”

“—but I’m afraid I have some work to get back to at home.” _Liar._ “Besides,” he grinned at Enjolras and bent to ruffle his hair, “it’s past _little_ Enjolras’ bedtime.” Enjolras glared daggers at his brother. 

“I am not _little_ , and I do _not_ have a bedtime,” he gritted out. Courfeyrac laughed and mussed up his hair. 

“Right. Well, either way, unless you want to look dead restacking the bookshelves tomorrow, we’d best be heading home now.” The older man threw a cautious look over at Combeferre as he helped Enjolras up to his feet and towards the doorway. “Thank you again, Professor.” Combeferre opened his mouth to correct Courfeyrac for the millionth time in the last few years, but seemed to decide against it, shaking his head with a smile. 

“It was no problem. Besides, Enjolras is like a younger brother to me too. A younger brother who admittedly needs to do a better job at taking care of himself,” he added with a sigh. Enjolras flushed. 

As they walked out to hail a taxi, Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac and raised an eyebrow. 

“Work at home?” 

“I’ve got a few cases to file,” Courf muttered. Enjolras rolled his eyes; his brother worked at the legal department of the British embassy, and though he knew he didn’t hate his job, he also knew he didn’t exactly love it either, which is why he almost never did office work when he got home. 

“I don’t understand, he invited us for dinner. That’s a good thing. It means he tolerates you.” Courfeyrac gave him a flat look. 

“Wow, you’re right; because that’s exactly what I’m going for, for him to _tolerate me._ ” Enjolras looked up at him with a raised brow. 

“Who knows, maybe it’s his own way of saying he likes you and wants to get to know you better. And isn’t dinner like a date?” Courfeyrac laughed. 

“Yes Enj, dinner between Combeferre, me, and my little brother is exactly what qualifies as a date. You really don’t have any idea how love works, do you?” he teased. Enjolras scowled at him. 

“I know how love works,” he muttered sulkily, though he admitted in his mind that he didn’t exactly have the proof to show it. “Anyway, we’re here to talk about your love for Combeferre.

“Oh so now all of a sudden he’s _Combeferre?”_ Courf muttered under his breath. Enjolras rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, he’s _Combeferre_ now because that’s what he asked us to call him. Why didn’t you just have dinner with him? I could’ve gone home alone.” 

Courfeyrac looked at him like he was crazy.

“First of all, there is no way I would ever let you walk home alone with an injury—”

“It’s an injured _wrist_ , Courf, not a broken leg—”

“And second, have you taken a look at the state I’m in?” Now that he looked at him better, Enjolras did see that his brother’s clothes weren’t exactly in the best shape. His suit was dusty from laying in the tomb and his shoulders were covered in cobwebs. _That’s your own fault,_ he thought as he inspected his form. 

“It’s not that bad,” he lied. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

“Enjolras please, if I ever went on a date with Professor Combeferre, it would be at a cafe in Paris. I’d wear a dashing suit, he’d wear one of his stupid cardigans and some cheesy romantic song would be playing in the background. His glasses would slide down his nose, and then I’d have to lean over and push them back up, and then he would realize how madly in love he is with me, and he would fall into my arms as we kiss passionately under the setting Parisian sun.” Enjolras snorted and turned to look at his brother. 

“You seem to have planned this out in quite a bit of detail.” Courf winked at him.

"When you're as experienced at romance as I am, you know just exactly what will work to get someone to fall in love with you."

"Cool advice; still doesn't change the fact that you dream about my Professor." 

_____________________________________________________________

"I don't need you to tuck me in!" 

"Your wrist is broken Enjolras, you shouldn't be moving it at all. Grappling at the quilt will make it worse." 

"I have an injury Courf, I'm not paralyzed!" Enjolras huffed as he felt his quilt be drawn up over his body, his left hand laid out over a pillow, elevated over his heart just as Combeferre had instructed. This was demeaning; though he was venting his frustration onto Courfeyrac for insisting he help him with the most basic tasks, he knew the man was only doing it because it was a sure fact that he wouldn't be able to do them alone. And that was the thing; Enjolras was frustrated that he needed help to do even the simplest of chores, such as tuck himself into bed. It made him feel weak and vulnerable, the two things he hated feeling the most. 

Courfeyrac, for his own part, took Enjolras' bitter behaviour all in stride. He knew the younger man didn't like being treated as if he were fragile. But ever since his parents had taken the boy in when he was nine and Enjolras just five, he had always seen it as sort of his job to make sure Enjolras was taken care of and allowed to feel his own age instead of being forced to grow up prematurely like so many other children who experienced trauma at such a young age. They may not be related by blood, but for Courfeyrac, Enjolras would always be his little brother who tried to act more mature than he really was, an act that would be disproven when he would rage against Courfeyrac for taking the last cookie.

Smiling, Courf looked down at the younger man, who was pouting (though he knew he would later deny it) against his pillow. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. Enjolras turned to look at him with his blue eyes. 

"Hey," Courf started gently, "it still hurts, doesn't it?" Enjolras winced, his eyes welling with tears again as he nodded his head. Courfeyrac pursed his lips; he really should have remembered to ask the Professor for medication to deal with the pain. In his mind, he made a mental note to ask him tomorrow. He brushed back a stray golden curl from his brother's face as he suddenly remembered what he had found a little while ago. 

Digging around in his pocket, his hand clasped around a familiar shape. He smiled. 

"Hey, I know what'll cheer you up. I've got a surprise for you." Enjolras eyed him suspiciously. 

"What is it?" From his pocket, he protruded a rather peculiar looking box shaped in the image of a star. Enjolras' gaze immediately turned intrigued as his eyes danced over the hieroglyphics and hieratics engraved on it. Carefully, he sat up in his bed and reached out for the object with his right hand, turning it over his fingers. "What is it?" he repeated, this time more reverently. Courfeyrac smiled at him.

"I don't know. It looks sort of like a star-shaped puzzle box. Maybe you could tell me better yourself," he replied softly as he watched Enjolras' brows furrow while scrutinizing the box. 

"I'm… not exactly sure," he started. He ran his fingers over the grooves and notches. At the top, there seemed to be almost what felt like the hinges of a door. "Where did you get this, Courfeyrac?" he asked. On the inside, Courfeyrac grimaced. A tiny lie wouldn't hurt anyone now, would it?

"Just a dig down at Thebes," he replied dismissively. “I’ve had it for about a year now actually."

Enjolras looked up at him as if he were mad. "A _year?"_ he asked incredulously. "You've had this for a _year_ now and _you_ _didn't think to tell me?"_

Courfeyrac waved a dismissive hand. "I never thought it was worth anything. But now that you're here… Well,” he looked eager, “have I found something?” Enjolras continued to inspect the box. Carefully, he brought his left hand to cup it as he pushed down on a part of the object.

"I think," he murmured, "Courf," with a click, the box opened up, "you’ve found something!" he finished triumphantly. Out tumbled an old piece of parchment. Courfeyrac picked it up curiously. 

"Wow," he muttered, "it's a map." 

"Let me see it!" Enjolras reached for it as Courfeyrac handed him his reading glasses. After a few moments of intense inspection, his brother gasped. 

"What is it?" he asked. Enjolras looked at him with wide eyes. 

"Courfeyrac," he whispered in awe, "this map leads to Hamunaptra." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras meets dashing explorer Grantaire. Well, not exactly dashing now is he? No, he’s "filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel.” Certainly nothing Enjolras likes there. A deal is struck and an adventure begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> They finally meet! I had fun writing this chapter. Things finally start to pick up! Heads up for an excessive use of the nickname angel from this chapter on.
> 
> Damn I forgot to add this in the previous chapters so I'll go back now and put this in-  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

“See the royal seal in the corner? That’s the official seal of Pharaoh Seti the First,” Enjolras explained breathlessly. The soft light of morning streamed through the windows of Monsieur Valjean’s office. As soon as the night had turned to day, Enjolras had dragged Courfeyrac over to his boss’ office, box and map in hand. The man had a vast amount of resources on hand, and held a lot more power than he did in allowing for investigations and funding scholarly research, and Enjolras would be damned if he didn’t use what he could. Anxiously, he watched as Monsieur Valjean scrutinized the parchment. 

“I have a question,” Courfeyrac piped up, waving his hand in the air like an overexcited preschooler. Enjolras sighed.

“Yes, Courf?” 

“This Seti the First, was he rich?” Enjolras rolled his eyes; of course that’s all his brother would be interested in.

“He was the second Pharaoh of the nineteenth dynasty, he was one of the richest of all,” he explained exasperatedly. Courfeyrac hummed in satisfaction.

“Good. I like this Seti, then.” Enjolras turned back to where Monsieur Valjean was still examining the map, a strange look in his eyes. 

“And look,” he pointed to an inscription on the corner of the map, “Monsieur Valjean, if you just take a look at the hieratic here, it’s Hamunaptra!” he told him enthusiastically. Monsieur Valjean looked back down, then raised his eyebrows at him. 

“Don’t be silly, Enjolras, we’re scholars, not treasure hunters,” he told him flatly. “Hamunaptra is nothing more than a myth.” Enjolras’ brows furrowed for a second, but his face brightened with passion again; he would not be deterred today, he was too excited about his newest discovery for that. 

“Yes, I’ve heard the nonsense of the curse of the mummy,” he said, pushing up his reading glasses. “However, my research leads me to believe that the City of the Dead actually exists!” he finished eagerly. From the chair next to him, Courfeyrac waved his hand in the air again.

“Wait, are you talking about _the_ City of the Dead? Where the earliest of the Pharaohs were said to have hidden the wealth of Egypt,” he asked with bright eyes. Monsieur Valjean waved his hand dismissively. 

“Yes, yes, we all know the stories,” he said rolling his eyes and holding the map close to the flame of the candle on his desk. “Oh my!” Monsieur Valjean exclaimed as he suddenly dropped the map. Enjolras watched in horror as the corner of the map caught on fire. 

“No!” he cried out as he desperately tried to put out the flames. Courfeyrac jumped up and smothered them with his shirt, holding it out for Enjolras, who looked upon the now destroyed parchment. “You’ve burnt it! You’ve burnt off the part with the lost city!” he exclaimed mournfully, as Courfeyrac draped a comforting arm around him and rested his chin on his head. Monsieur Valjean looked at him in pity.

“Probably for the best. Many men have wasted their lives in pursuit of Hamunaptra, and you would be wise not to waste yours.” Furious, Enjolras stormed out of the office, tucking away the burnt map in his pocket. He ran an agitated hand through his curls. From behind, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Unbelievable! Our one and only chance to find Hamunaptra and possibly make the greatest discovery in all of Egyptology and the old man burnt it!” He buried his head in his hands. “That could have been my ticket, Courf! I could have finally shown the Bembridge Scholars—”

“Enj,” Courfeyrac interrupted abruptly. “That, um, that wasn’t our only chance…” Slowly, Enjolras looked up at his brother.

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. Courfeyrac twisted his hand nervously.

“Well, the man who I had acquired the box from said that he had, um, been there. To Hamunaptra,” he explained. Enjolras frowned and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“I thought you told me you had gotten this a year ago at a dig down in Thebes,” he said in an accusatory tone. Courfeyrac grimaced.

“Actually, it was more like a bar… in Giza,” he admitted sheepishly, avoiding his brother’s gaze. 

_“A bar in Giza?”_ Enjolras repeated incredulously. 

“And I might have just stolen it from him. Pick-pocketed it, really. I mean it wasn't even really my fault. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten so drunk he couldn't see a man outright reach into his pocket and take it, ever thought about that?” he continued. Enjolras shoved him, infuriated.

“Courfeyrac you are unbelievable!” he exclaimed as he began to walk away towards the British fort. 

“Wait, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac jogged to catch up, “you’re missing the point!” Courfeyrac gripped his shoulder and turned him to look him in the eyes. “Look, if we can find the man I swiped it from, then maybe he can take us to the lost city!” he exclaimed hopefully. Enjolras gave him a flat, unconvinced stare

“Yeah? Good luck finding him when you don’t even have a name to go off of. Besides, it's been a year, how would you even find him?” he huffed as he started walking again. Courfeyrac gave him a wide grin. 

“I don’t need a name though,” he beamed, “I already know where he is.” Enjolras whipped his head over to look at Courfeyrac. _He knew where the man was? That could be his chance!_ In spite of himself, he spoke.

“Oh? Well then where is he?” Courfeyrac smiled.

“Cairo Prison.”

__________________________________________________________

Cairo Prison was not a pleasant place; the sweltering heat of Egypt seemed to be amplified as soon as Enjolras and Courfeyrac stepped through the gates, where the warden greeted them.

“Welcome!” The Jail warden gestured at them to walk by him. While they walked through the yard, Enjolras took his time asking questions so he could understand the situation he was approaching better. 

“What exactly is this man in prison for?” he asked. The warden turned to look at him and shrugged his shoulders. 

“I do not know. I asked him myself and he said,” the warden gave him a grin, Enjolras watching as he banged his baton against the rusted metal of the jail cell, “he was _looking for a good time, and there didn't seem to be any bottle around.”_ The doors behind the jail cell burst open, a pair of guards dragging in a cuffed up man with wildly curly, filthy hair. When he looked up, Enjolras was shocked by the way his green eyes clashed with the rest of his appearance. The man bared his teeth while he looked at the two.

“Who are you?” he asked as he set his eyes on Courfeyrac. Then he turned to look at Enjolras. “And who’s the angel?” Enjolras turned a furious red. 

“Excuse me?” he sputtered. Courfeyrac leaned in closer to whisper into his ear. 

“Ask him about the box,” he gritted out, lightly pushing him forward. Enjolras glared at him before cautiously approaching the man behind bars. He sneaked a glance at the jail warden, who was busy shouting at marching prisoners across the yard. 

“Um, hello,” he started quietly, trying his best not to appear intimidated under the man’s fierce stare. “We, um, we found your puzzle box, and we came to ask about it.” The man stared at him for a moment longer before shaking his head. 

“No,” the man replied in a flat tone.

“N—no?” Enjolras parroted, confused.

“You came to ask me about Hamunaptra,” he said, mouth thinning. Enjolras raised his eyebrows and sucked in a sharp breath.

“You know about Hamunaptra?” he asks in shock. “How?” 

“Because that’s where I was when I found the box. I was there.” Beside him, Courfeyrac scoffed in disbelief.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” he asked with raised brows. The man turned to look at his brother, narrowing his eyes.

“Do I know you?” he asked suspiciously. Alarm flashed across Courf’s face for a second before he masked it with a look of nonchalance. 

“No, no you don’t I’ve just got one of those—” Enjolras yelped as he watched the man deliver a swift blow to his brother’s face, sending the dark haired man falling onto the side on the ground. “—faces,” he finished as he groaned into the ground. Briefly, Enjolras spared his brother a look of concern before turning his attention to the man behind the bars, who he noticed was now eyeing him with a lot more interest. He stepped up closer to the bars.

“Were you really at Hamunaptra?” he asked with wide eyes. The man looked him over and grinned. 

“Yeah, I was there,” he replied.

“You swear it?” Enjolras insisted. The man’s smile grew larger.

“Seti’s place? City of the Dead? Oh yeah. On you, _angel_ , I swear; I was there.” Choosing to ignore that last comment, Enjolras leaned in closer.

“Do you think you could, possibly, tell me how to get there?” The man raised his eyebrows at him. 

“You wanna know?” he asked in sudden seriousness. Enjolras nodded, delirious with excitement. 

“Yes, yes I do,” he told him breathlessly. 

“You really wanna know?” When he nodded again, the man gestured at him to come closer. Enjolras leaned in until he was mere centimeters from the man’s face, the only thing separating them being the bars of the cell. He looked into the man’s green eyes earnestly, waiting for him to speak. 

Then, he felt a calloused hand grip his chin and pull him into a rough, hard kiss. Startled, Enjolras screamed into the man’s mouth, earning a gruff chuckle as he wrestled himself out of the man’s hold. Before he could stagger back, the prisoner grabbed him by his left wrist, pulling him close and drawing out a sharp cry.

“Then get me out of here,” the man hissed. Enjolras yanked his hand back and rubbed at it, tears of pain welling in his eyes as he watched the guards haul the man backwards out of the cell. He watched in shock as the man disappeared in a flurry of wild, black curls and chain shackles. The warden walked up beside him. 

“Wait, where are they taking him?” he asked in panic. 

“To be hanged,” the warden replied casually. Enjolras jaw dropped. “Apparently,” the warden continued, “he had a very good time.” Hanged? They can’t hang him! That was Enjolras ticket to Hamunaptra and the Bembridge Scholars being hauled away to death! 

The warden gestured for him and Courfeyrac to follow him. Perched on a peak, they were able to oversee the execution of the man. The warden grabbed his hand and dragged him into a seat. Desperately, he whipped around to look at the warden.

“I’ll give you one hundred pounds to save this man’s life,” he offered. The warden raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Sir, I would pay one hundred pounds to watch this man die,” he quipped back, turning back to the scene with a smile on his face. _What a sicko._

“Two hundred pounds.”

“Proceed!”

“Three hundred pounds,” he tried again. 

The warden froze and turned back to him, interested. His eyes flickered over Enjolras’ body as he ran a hand up the blond’s thigh. “What else will you give me?” he asked. “I am a very lonely man.” _Perhaps it is because no one would want such a filthy man._ Revolted, Enjolras slapped his hand away, turning instead to watch as the executioner fits the noose over the man’s neck. 

The warden called out, “Any last requests?” The man glared up at him.

“Yeah! Loosen the knot and let me go!” Laughing, the warden waved his hand and signalled for the executioner to get on with it. Enjolras watched as the executioner dealt a hard blow to the crate the man previously stood on, causing him to fall through and strangle on the noose.

_NO!_

Enjolras jumped up and cried out as he watched the man suffocate. His chance was slipping right through his fingers! If this man died, he would never make it onto the board of the Bembridge Scholars!

Beside him, the warden tutted. “His neck didn’t break. Now we have to watch him choke.” Heart racing against his chest, Enjolras turned to look at the warden again.

“Please—I—he—” there was only one last idea in his head left, and though he hated that he must use it, he was desperate. “This man knows the location of Hamunaptra!” he blurted out. The warden snapped his head to look at Enjolras in disbelief. 

“You lie!” he exclaimed accusingly. Enjolras’ face contorted indignantly.

“I would never!” The warden jerked his head in the direction of the suffocating prisoner.

“Are you telling me that this filthy, godless, son of a pig, knows where to find the City of the Dead? Truly?” Firmly, Enjolras nodded his head. 

“Yes, yes he does, and if you cut him down, we’ll give you…” he faltered. He really didn’t want to do this, but in the time he hesitated, the man let out a sharp, choked cry. Snapping out of it, Enjolras looked at the warden frantically. “We’ll give you ten percent.” 

“Fifty percent,” the warden countered. Enjolras shook his head.

“Twenty percent,” he fired back.

“Forty percent.” Enjolras bit his lip and hesitated. He couldn’t give him forty percent! No way! Even if he wasn’t really in it for the fortune, Courf would murder him. Down below, the man called out.

“Just—AAAAH—give him what he—AAAAAH!” In his chest, his heart was racing a mile a minute. 

Whipping his head back to the warden, he gave him an even stare and prayed his face did not give away the panic that was racking his body at the present moment.

“Twenty-five percent, and not a single pound more,” he told him in a hard and firm voice. The warden smiled.

“Cut him down!” The crowd of prisoners burst into cheers as the executioner raised his scimitar and cut the dangling rope. Gasping, the man dropped to the ground. Enjolras turned to look at him, flushed. When the man raised his eyes to look up at where Enjolras stood, he waved breathlessly.

_I’m going to find Hamunaptra!_

__________________________________________________________

In the dark of Monsieur Valjean’s office, the curator and three men sat politely discussing a few civil matters.

“Would you like for us to kill him?” One of the three—Medjai, they were called—asked. Eyes wide, Valjean shook his head furiously. 

“What? No, of course not!” 

“Then what would you have us do? He has the map and the lost key.” Valjean rubbed at his temples.

“There are more solutions than death. I simply want you to stop him, destroy the map, and retrieve the key.” He sighed and stood up, pacing the floor, hands clasped behind him. “If you do not stop him, it will be the end of us all. I have a daughter at home to keep safe.” He turned back around to face the Medjai, whose scimitars and swords hung on their belts. Looking them straight in the eyes, he said sternly, “No harm comes to the boy. I want you to bring him back safely. Is that understood?” 

The men nodded. “Have faith, it will happen,” the one at the front promised rather reluctantly. “But what of the Americans? I hear they've come in pursuit of the lost city too." Valjean waved a dismissive hand. 

“Forget about the Americans; they’re a whole lot brawn more than brains. They’ll end up like all the others. Without the map, they have no chance.”

__________________________________________________________

Enjolras bit his lip as he stood on his toes and scanned the bustling crowd of the sea port of Cairo. Unable to find what he was looking for, he let out a huff of frustration and sank back down to his regular height. 

“Are you sure he’s going to show up?” he asked his brother anxiously, referring to the man from the prison, who Enjolras learned is named Rene Grantaire. _He’s a Captain in the French Foreign Legion,_ Courfeyrac had told him with a wink. 

“Undoubtedly. I know his type Enjolras; he may be a cowboy, but he is a man of his word.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and scoffed. 

“Personally, I think he’s filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel,” he remarked, his mind flashing back to the memory of the man’s—Grantaire’s—lips on his own. He shivered a little, then recomposed himself. “I don’t like him one bit,” he finished with a scowl. 

“Anyone I know?” At the sound of that familiar voice, Enjolras turned around and— _oh._

Before him stood the same man from prison, except he didn’t look anything like he did behind those bars. His wild, dark curls had been trimmed to frame his head in a rugged fashion, he’d shaved himself clean, noticeably washed himself up, and dressed himself in crisp, clean clothes. At Enjolras’ slack-jawed look of dumbfoundedness, he smiled boldly, green eyes glinting mischievously. 

Enjolras flushed. “Oh… um… hello.” Beside him, Courfeyrac stepped up to clasp Grantaire’s hand. 

“Smashing day for an adventure, eh Grantaire?” The man winced.

“Yeah, smashing. Hey, listen, no hard feelings about the, uh…” he mimicked the action of a punch and gestured to where a bluish-purple now bloomed on Courfeyrac’s right eye. His brother grinned.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that at all, happens all the time,” he replied joyfully. Enjolras snorted.

“Maybe you should thank him for it,” he muttered under his breath. When they had exited the prison, Enjolras had taken him back to Professor Combeferre’s house to get his eye looked at. The Professor had been livid when he saw the bruise, cursing the man who had injured him as he treated his brother’s wound and fussed over him. Courfeyrac had never been happier.

His brother turned to him sheepishly. “Oh, perhaps I should have mentioned this to you before, Enjolras, but…” He glanced at Grantaire, then gingerly took his brother’s hand in his own and walked a bit away where Grantaire wouldn’t be able to hear them unless he strained to listen. 

“The Professor is coming,” Courfeyrac blurted out. Enjolras snapped his head up to look at his brother. 

“What? Why?” he asked. Courfeyrac ran a hand through his dark curls. 

“I may have accidentally, sort of, let it slip that we were going to find the lost city,” he admitted. At Enjolras’ furious glare, he hurriedly continued, “He wanted to be there to make sure you didn’t overexert yourself or worsen the damage on your wrist. How could I say no?” Enjolras sighed in frustration.

“Like this: no! Besides, I don’t need a babysitter!” 

“You kind of do,” his brother muttered under his breath, earning him a glare. “Come on, don’t you trust him?” 

“Of course I trust him, Courf. I just don’t want everyone we know to be coming on this expedition with us. It’s a research assignment, for God’s sake!” Courfeyrac gave him a sympathetic look. 

“It’ll be fine, Enjolras. You have my word: he won’t meddle in anything.” Enjolras looked at him in exasperation before muttering a quick _fine_ and turning away, walking back to where Grantaire stood. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Grantaire—”

“Don’t call me Mister,” the man interrupted. Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows, confused. 

“What?” Grantaire looked at him.

“Don’t call me Mister,” he repeated. “It makes me feel old, and I hardly doubt I’m that much older than you, or that much too old _for_ you,” he continued with a wink. Enjolras’ cheeks went scarlet again as he watched the man look down at him in amusement. 

“Well, be that as it may, I hardly know you, _Mr. Grantaire,_ and as such it is only befitting that I address you in regards to that.” Grantaire grinned at him and cocked his head. 

“Well I guess we’ll just have to get to know each other better then.” As his heartbeat picked up, Enjolras realized that this was _not_ the conversation he had wanted to have when he walked over here. Annoyed, he grabbed at the taller man’s crisp shirt and pulled him down towards his face, close enough for their noses to touch. 

“Mr. Grantaire, I’m warning you; if this is some sort of a scam or trick—” 

“Look _angel,”_ the man interrupted, gaze burning fiercely into his eyes, “all I know is that my Colonel found that map in an ancient fortress, and the whole damn garrison believed in it so much, that without orders, we marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt to find that city. Like I told you, all I saw was sand. Everybody else was wiped-out by Bedouin warriors.” Pulling himself out of Enjolras’ grip, he turned away and walked up the gangplank to haul his bags onto the ship. 

Enjolras turned sheet-white. _His bags._ He turned to find Courfeyrac, but his brother was nowhere in sight.That left him alone with their several bags; he did not want to leave any unattended, as the port of Egypt was rather infamous for theft, and so that ruled out any thought of making two trips to carry their belongings onto the ship. Sighing, he resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to employ the use of both his hands, wincing when his casted wrist twisted. As he bent down to pick up their bags, a hand reached out and closed itself over his left wrist. 

“I’ll get your bags,” a voice said gently. He snapped his head up and found himself face-to-face with Grantaire again. When he muttered a quiet, _it’s fine,_ and tried to pick the luggage up, the grip on his wrist lightly tightened. “That can’t be too good for your injury. Let me take it.” Before he could protest further, Grantaire took all their bags at once and walked back away up the gangplank and onto the ship, seeming quite at ease with the heavy load. Enjolras’ dazed eyes wistfully followed his figure as he walked up and away, cheeks flushing at the memory of the way Grantaire's hand felt on his.

“You were right, Enj,” a voice to his right suddenly tells him, making him jump, “filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel. Nothing at all to like there.” He turned to look into Courfeyrac's wry, grinning face. Huffing, he smacked him on the arm. 

“Shut up, Courf.”

A familiar figure suddenly brushed past him. Enjolras watched in disbelief as the jail warden from the day before walked up to them, tipping his tattered hat in his direction. 

“A very good morning to you all,” he said as he grabbed Enjolras’ hand and pressed a light kiss to its back. Enjolras wrenched his hand out of his grip and glared at the warden.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in disgust as he wiped his hand on his light cotton shirt. The warden raised his eyebrows at him.

“Why, I’m here to protect my investment,” he explained before he too turned around to walk up the gangplank. Sharing an exasperated look with his brother, he looked around the docks, shielding his face from the bright heat of the sun. 

_Great? Is anyone else coming?_

As if the universe heard his thoughts, a voice came from behind him. 

“I hope you understand I’m not here to impose on your academic research.” Turning around, Enjolras looked up into the kind eyes of his ex-professor.

“Pro—Combeferre,” he shook his hand. “Of course. Your presence is very much welcome. Although,” he let out a huff of frustration, “I’d appreciate it if you and my brother could get it in your heads that I don’t need to be looked after,” he said, throwing a dirty glance at his brother, who had resumed his usual hobby of Combeferre-staring. The Professor smiled. 

“While you may say that, Enjolras, I’d like to remind you that it is you who inevitably ends up on my doorstep every week with some new injury. So I promise I’m only coming to make sure you take care of that wrist of yours and don’t end up hurting yourself again. Although, after yesterday, it seems I’ll be doing that for your brother here as well,” he said, glancing at Courfeyrac, who looked panicked at being caught staring (why—Enjolras didn’t know. The Professor wasn’t as oblivious as he thought he was. He caught him staring a couple dozen—hundreds—of times before.) Combeferre turned around and started towards the gangplank. Enjolras pushed Courfeyrac.

“Go talk to him!” he hissed. Courf looked at him wildly. 

“About what?” 

“Anything!” With another push, he sent Courfeyrac staggering next to the Professor, who grabbed at his elbow to make sure he didn’t fall over. Rolling his eyes, Enjolras watched as his brother laughed nervously and walked away, trying to initiate a conversation. 

_This is going to be a long trip._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Shout out if you noticed the Gravity Falls reference. "Like this: no!"
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Americans. Enjolras discusses height, gold, and dreams with Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Don't ask me how an American can get drafted into the French legion, I don't know. I simply went with what was in the movie. Enjoy today's chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

It turns out, there were eight Americans onboard for the expedition, one group containing four members, and the other simply three. Grantaire ran into the first group earlier while he was settling into his room (which just so happened to be located across Angel—sorry, Enjolras'—own.) They were a group of nasty looking men who seemed to be ready to start a fight with anyone and everyone. Mentally, Grantaire made a note in his head to steer clear of those five. The other group, however, seemed quite the bit more spirited. The three men, who Grantaire was told are named Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly, clasped his hand eagerly when he introduced himself and invited him over for a game of cards and a few drinks.

When he walked over to the table, he found someone he did not expect to see already sitting at one of the chairs, fiery red hair poking out of a fabric hat. 

"Feuilly!" The man turned around and smiled as Grantaire gave him a lazy salute. He had met Feuilly when he had first joined the legion at eighteen and Feuilly was twenty. At the time, Feuilly, despite only being two years his senior, had achieved the ranking of second lieutenant, which meant he was his section leader; he was the one who had invariably whipped Grantaire into shape, and for that Grantaire owed the man his gratitude. Fast track a few years and Grantaire had managed to climb up the ranks to the position of Captain, or _Capitaine,_ while Feuilly had ended up being promoted as a Major, or _Commandant,_ and overtime, they went from simply being members of the same regiment to full-friends who refused to use titles in front of each other. "What are you doing here?" 

Feuilly smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Did Bahorel not tell you? I'm here to make sure these three hooligans don't die in the desert." Bahorel playfully punched the man in the arm. 

"Shut up, Feuilly. We wouldn't _die_ without you." Grantaire chuckled as he slid into his seat. 

"I'm quite sure you would. You can never trust an American to actually use their brain instead of going into everything guns-blazing." Across from him, Bossuet quirked an eyebrow.

"But you're an American." 

"My point exactly." He picked up a handful of cards and took a swig from the nearest bottle. 

"Hey! That was my bottle!" Joly exclaimed. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him. 

"Sorry," he held it out to him, "want it back?" The man recoiled from the bottle. 

"No!" he cried. "Do you have any idea how many germs it has now? If I were to drink from it again, I could become sick! And if I were to become sick and go untreated, the illness could develop into something so much worse, like tuberculosis, or influenza, or—"

"Please take a deep breath." From behind him, a brunet man in tall glasses eyed the panicking American with concern. Grantaire recognized him as Angel— _Enjolras'_ —Professor friend. Behind him stood the man he had punched, staring at the Professor, unblinking. When Joly's eyes fell on the Professor, his breathing seemed to even out. He blinked. 

"Do I know you?" the American asked. The Professor furrowed his brows and shook his head.

"No, I don't think so." Joly continued to scrutinize the man, until his eyes went wide with realization 

"Of course! You're that Professor of Medicine from Cambridge, aren't you?" He jumped up and shook the Professor's hand. "My name is Joly, sir, I'm a doctor. I've read all your papers on the ethics of drugs as medicine, ingenious work really—" 

"Please, call me Combeferre," the Professor told him, wearing an amused expression on his face. 

As they played the night away, the conversation eventually turned from friendly and light-hearted to serious. 

"Where are the other Americans?" Grantaire asked suddenly. Bossuet snorted. 

"Better we don't know," he replied shortly. 

"I take it you're not very well acquainted with them," Angel— _Enjolras', why couldn't he get that in his brain?_ — brother, Courfeyrac stated with a slight tease. Bahorel shook his head.

"I don't think anyone's 'well acquainted' with those four. Babet, Guelemer, Claquesous, and of course, the ‘ringmaster’ of the circus, Montparnasse—not exactly a gang you'd wanna get involved with. Honestly, if the names alone don't turn you off, then I don't know what does. Bunch of idiots who think wearing all-black makes them appear scary." Feuilly rolled his eyes. 

"One of them tried to make me agree to a bet of five hundred dollars that they'd make it to Hamunaptra before us." Combeferre's eyebrows shot up. 

"Five hundred dollars?" he murmured. "What makes them so sure they'll get there before we do," when the professor said the word _we,_ he gestured to the entire table, an act that made Grantaire smile. Bahorel leaned in closer, slightly dropping his voice as he spoke. 

"Supposedly, they've got a guide who's actually been there." Grantaire's carefully crafted poker face dropped. In his peripheral, he could see Courfeyrac shoot him a quick glance. 

"They do, do they?" he muttered under his breath. A guide who had already been there? That wasn't possible; his entire garrison had been wiped out by the attack at Hamunaptra. There was only one person he could think of who could have survived and gone on to become this mysterious guide, but… 

Grantaire shook his head. That was impossible. He would know if such a thing happened, he would have seen him on the ship. 

"I'm dealing in ten pounds," he announced as he dropped his money in the middle of the betting pool and ignored Courfeyrac's look of concern.

________________________________________________

The slight breeze in the air made Enjolras shiver as he sat at a table alone, pushing up his reading glasses and pouring over his map. Though the part Hamunaptra was drawn on had been burnt off, the parchment was still fascinating to examine. This was a document that had survived for thousands of years, detailed with an ancient writing system that few knew how to read, and supposedly led to what Enjolras believed would be one of the greatest discoveries in archaeological history! Enjolras didn't understand how this kind of stuff didn't excite people. His mind swirled with thoughts, jumping from scenario to scenario, dreams in which the Bembridge Scholars _finally_ recognized the genius of an Egyptologist he was, he was given the proper tools for better, more thorough and in-depth research, and his brother would finally have the guts to indulge himself in a relationship with Combeferre. 

A more traitorous part of his mind, however, kept straying back to a mischievous and flirtatious pair of green eyes and the memory of a warm hand on his own. His cheeks heated up at the flashback and he did his best to tamp down the feeling, trying to return to his previous daydream. 

_BAM!_

A gunny-sack suddenly dropped onto the table in front of his eyes; Enjolras yelped and attempted to jump back in his chair, which sent the chair tipping backwards, himself still seated in it. He closed his eyes and gasped, bracing for impact, already imagining the lecture he'd end up hearing from Combeferre, but before he felt the floor on his back, however, his motion stilled as the chair remained suspended in its tilt. Opening his eyes, he looked directly into a pair of concerned green eyes. Enjolras swallowed nervously as he felt his cheeks begin to burn up.

_Damn it! Not now!_

"You really seem to have a knack for harming yourself, huh?" Grantaire asked as he gripped one hand on the back of the chair, preventing it from falling onto the floor by balancing it mid-tilt. His face was mere inches from Enjolras' own. Enjolras, for the most part held onto the seat of the chair for dear life and prayed that Grantaire didn't let go. 

"Please," he closed his eyes and hoped his voice didn't sound as strangled and afraid as he thought it did, "put the chair back up." For a moment, nothing happened, and he was afraid that Grantaire would let go, when the chair suddenly righted itself, falling forwards with a _thud,_ and his body threw itself into a pair of strong, warm arms. Enjolras' own arms, looking for something to counter the sudden imbalance in the way they had been thrown off, wound themselves around his saviour's neck. For a second, Enjolras allowed himself to be held in this warm embrace. 

That is, until he remembered who had been holding the chair. 

Horrified, Enjolras pushed Grantaire away and staggered away, forgetting about the chair and tripping over backwards, once again falling. Grantaire dove for his hand and pulled him into a dip, his arms anchoring themselves around Enjolras' slim waist. Enjolras clutched at the taller man's shirt. 

"That's the second time you've almost broken your back in a span of less than five minutes." Grantaire cocked his head and peered at him in mock-curiosity. "You really are a bit of a walking disaster." Enjolras glared at him, cheeks flushing out of both embarrassment and frustration. Clutching at Grantaire's shirt tighter, Enjolras took a breath and forced himself to remain calm, though his racing heart proved otherwise. 

"Please let me up," he requested. Grantaire stared at him for a moment. Then he smirked. 

"No." 

Enjolras eyes lit ablaze in fury, but just as he was about to open his mouth to protest, he felt one arm slide underneath the backs of his knees and another support his back as he was hauled off the ground and cradled against the broader man's chest. He shrieked and attempted to push away from the strong man's hold. 

"Let me go! Mr. Grantaire let me go—!" He felt a deep rumble in the man's chest as Grantaire laughed. 

"Relax, Angel _,_ I'm just making sure you don't injure yourself trying to get to your seat. Can't have you dying before you see Hamunaptra. Now stop wriggling or I'll drop you." In a few strides, Grantaire carried him over to the table where he gently set him down upon it much like a groom would his newlywed bride. Furious, Enjolras pushed him away. 

"How dare you pick me up like that, carry me without my permission, how dare you—" Enjolras hissed at him. Grantaire simply laughed at him again. 

"Alright, I'm sorry!" The dark haired man threw up his hands in mock-surrender. "I won't do it again!" He threw Enjolras a wink, "Unless you ask me to." Grantaire's eyes softened as he looked over to where Enjolras was running an anxious hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized gently. Enjolras glared. 

"The only thing that scares me, Mr. Grantaire, are your manners, or lack thereof," he told him. The corner of Grantaire's lip twitched. 

"Still mad about that kiss, are you?" Huffing, Enjolras bristled and crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"It wasn't a kiss," he told Grantaire (and himself.) "There was nothing consensual about it. So you can forget it ever happened." 

Grantaire looked down at him amusedly. "You're a real piece of work, aren't you? So much righteous rage yet so little space to house it—I don't think I've ever seen a twenty-two year old man quite as small as you." At this, Enjolras positively burned. He didn't exactly need a reminder that he was… well… short. Back home, he only just came up to Combeferre and Courfeyrac's shoulder, and here Grantaire towered over him by quite an extraordinary amount, this time actually too short to come up to his shoulder, though he supposed that would mean he would fit quite well under Grantaire's chin were they to hug.

Enjolras jolted, startled by his own thoughts. Hug? Hug Grantaire? Why on Earth would he do that? Why was he even thinking about that? He was supposed to be mad. He bristled, both at Grantaire's comment and his own unreliable impulses.

"I am well aware that I am rather on the… shorter side than what men my age are, Mr. Grantaire, but that doesn't mean my capabilities are any less than that of other men, _and certainly not of yours,"_ he said fiercely. 

Grantaire smirked. "Never said they were. In fact, I would say you're probably a whole hell of a lot more capable than me. Although, what I _am_ saying," he leaned in closer, and Enjolras' breath caught in his throat as Grantaire bent down to whisper warmly into his ear, "is that if you ever need a pair of big, strong arms to keep your little body safe," he rested his comically large hands on Enjolras' comically small waist and pulled him close to his chest as Enjolras' heart started to race a mile a minute, "I don't think I'm too bad of a candidate." 

Enjolras felt his cheeks flame furiously hot as he pushed the laughing man away and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering though not from the cold.

Calming himself, Grantaire turned his attention away to the gunny sack resting next to him on the table, pulling out all kinds of revolvers, knives, pistols, and sticks of dynamite. Enjolras watched as he began to polish one of the guns; he snorted.

“Have I missed something? Are we going into battle?” he asked, rolling his eyes at the pile of weapons. Grantaire spared him a single glance before continuing his polishing.

“The last time I was at that place,” he said without looking up, “everybody I was with died.” 

Oh.

A few beats of silence passed between themselves before Grantaire spoke up again.

“There’s something out there, you know.” He looked up at him, “Something under the sand.” Enjolras raised his eyebrows at him.

“Yes, there is. I’m hoping to find a certain artifact, actually, a book. My brother thinks there’s treasure,” he added with a fond smile. He hesitated before adding, “What do you think is out there?” Grantaire looked him in the eyes.

“Evil,” he moved back to stand in front of him once more. “The Bedouin believe that Hamunaptra is cursed; they call it the ‘doorway to hell.’ ”

“‘Passageway to the Underworld.’” 

Grantaire quirked an amused eyebrow at him.

“Pardon me?”

“Ahmar is Ossirion. So it’s actually, ‘Passageway to the Underworld.’ ” Grantaire gave a gruff chuckle that made his stomach flutter; the man reached a large hand and plucked off his glasses, inspecting the round, golden frame in his hands for a moment. Enjolras made a grab for it, but the other man held it out of his grasp. He narrowed his eyes and huffed. 

_Whatever. I'll get them back later._

“You seem to know a lot about Egypt.”

“I’m an Egyptologist—”

“You don’t believe in the stories?” He gave the man in front of him a flat look.

“I don’t believe in fairytales, Mr. Grantaire, but I do believe that one of the most famous books in all of human history, the _Book of Amun-Ra,_ is buried somewhere out there. It,” he couldn’t contain the excitement in his voice, “it’s said to contain all the ancient incantations of the Old Kingdom. It’s what interested me in Egypt as a child; it’s why I came here. Sort of a life’s pursuit.” Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“And the fact that they say it’s made of pure gold has nothing to do with it?” Enjolras bristled. 

“Not all of us chase wealth, Mr. Grantaire,” he told him in an irritated tone. However, he did admit to himself that it was rather impressive that the man knew about that. “You know your history,” he added in a surprised voice. 

“I know my treasure.” Rolling his eyes, Enjolras slid off the table and made to head off to his room when the question he had been itching to ask made him stop and turn around. He hesitated for a second before he decided to just go for it and ask. 

“By the way,” he started, a blush dusting his cheeks, “why did you kiss me?” Grantaire shrugged his shoulders as his eyes raked over Enjolras. 

“I don’t know; I was about to be hanged. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” So he kissed him because he thought it would be convenient to have one final pleasure before he died? How rude! Furious, Enjolras turned around and stormed off. 

________________________________________________

Grantaire watched as Angel— _Enjolras, why couldn’t his brain remember that?_ —stormed away, leaving him in a state of perplexion. 

“Was it something I said?” he asked himself as his brows furrowed. From underneath the table he sat on, Grantaire heard the distinct sound of a snicker. Recognizing the voice, he reached his hand and pulled out Thenardier, who was panicking from being caught.

“My very good friend!” Thenardier tried in a voice of fake-joy, “What a surprise!” Grantaire scowled at him.

“Why if it isn’t my old buddy. I ought to kill you, Thenardier,” he said calmly as he stuck a sharpened knife under the man’s neck. Thenardier gave him a grin. 

“You never were any good with romance, Grantaire.” Ignoring his last comment, Grantaire narrowed his eyes at the other man. 

“So you’re the one leading the other Americans? I should’a figured. So what’s the scam this time? You lead them out into the desert and then leave them there to rot?” Thenardier sighed dramatically in his grip.

“Unfortunately, no. The lead is a lot smarter than I thought. They’re only paying me half now, and the other half when I get them back to Cairo, so I must go all the way.” Hesitating for a moment, Grantaire finally pulled the knife away from Thenardier’s throat, who relaxed and rubbed at his neck in relief. “So why are you going back to Hamunaptra?” the man asked. “You never believed in the place. The Devil himself lives there.” 

Grantaire’s eyes followed Enjolras as he crossed the deck in front of him again, seemingly having stormed off in the wrong direction the first time. The blond threw him a furious glare, which was at great odds with the soft blush that made itself visible on his marble cheeks; Grantaire grinned at him. 

“He saved my life,” he told Thenardier as he watched Enjolras stomp down the stairs. “Figured it was the least I could do, keep him out of trouble.” Thenardier snickered again, drawing back his attention towards the rat of a man. 

“You always had more balls than brains.” Narrowing his eyes, Grantaire grabbed Thenardier’s wrist.

“Let’s make us even, shall we?” Thenardier looked at him, fear flashing in his eyes.

“E—even?” he stuttered. In a rather impressive show of strength, Grantaire flipped the man over the side of the barge and into the river, where the man landed with a spectacular splash. 

“Grantaire, I’m going to kill you for that!” Thenardier called out. Rolling his eyes, he started off in the opposite direction down the deck. 

“Sounds familiar,” he called back with a snort. 

That’s when he spotted the footprints. 

There were three pairs, all wet and seemingly having appeared from over the rail and leading down the deck. Under his breath, he cursed.

Something was horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)  
> -A


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is confronted by a man in search of his map. Featuring sinking ships, mental maps, and bravado driven by adrenaline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter this week. Once again, I don't know how to write action, I am well aware that I should probably take a workshop. But in the meantime, please excuse my crappy action-writing. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

In the privacy of his room, Enjolras fumed. How dare that man! How dare he use him as a plot of convenience! Curse him and everything he stood for! Once this trip was over, he would be going his separate way from Grantaire forever!

In front of the mirror, he brushed out his curly blond hair, having already changed into a white cotton shirt and linen pants to go to sleep in. Satisfied, he turned around to head to bed. 

Behind him stood a man.

_What the hell?_

Slamming him flat against the wall and muffling his scream with a hand to his mouth, the man raised his knife to Enjolras’ throat. 

“Where is the map?” he hissed. Terrified, Enjolras gestured with his pupils over to where the map was lying face down on his bedside table. The man dug his knife further into his skin, drawing out a silent scream.

“And the key? Where is the key?” Key? What key? He didn’t have any key with him! As best as he could, he shook his head, confused. The man grinned at him. “You know,” he told him casually, as if he didn’t have a dangerously sharp knife pointed right at Enjolras’ carotid artery (knowledge courtesy of Combeferre), and that any wrong move would instantly kill him, “I have strict orders not to kill you, but I’m sure I could simply just frame it as an accident.” The man dug the knife further into his skin.

_BAM!_

The door burst open, a familiar head of wild black curls charging in wielding a gun. Enjolras felt himself physically be spun until he was held out in front of the man, knife still pressed to his throat. Grantaire looked at him grimly. 

“Friend of yours?” he asked as he jerked his head in the direction of the man with the knife. Trying to shake his head, his eyes caught sight of the flickering candle by the window. 

That’s when everything turned to hell.

_BOOM!_

Enjolras watched as Grantaire spun around just as the window shattered and a second man jumped through into the room. The man cocked his gun and fired, just narrowly missing Grantaire’s head and sending wood chips flying everywhere. Grantaire raised his pistol and returned fire.

_BOOM!_

The second man fell back with a cry. All around him, gunshots sounded as bullets ricocheted off of the walls. Desperately, Enjolras looked around for a weapon he could use himself as he felt the man behind him dig the knife in further; he choked. His heart pounded in his ears as he felt something warm and sticky trickle down his neck. Hazily, he realized the man had driven the knife into his flesh, not far enough to reach his artery or seriously wound him, but enough to draw blood. 

_BOOM!_

The lantern on the bedside table was shot and kerosene splashed all over the walls; when another bullet ricocheted onto the wall the room suddenly lit ablaze. Enjolras screamed as the curtains to his left suddenly danced with flames, a gust of wind sending the drapes flying towards him. The man moved him and himself out of the way; in his peripheral, he spotted the man’s clothes catch on fire. Distracted, the man loosened his hold on him. Quick as a wink, Enjolras reached over and grabbed the candle next to him, jamming it over his shoulder and into his captor’s eye. The man screamed and let go of him, bringing his hands to cup his burning eye. Enjolras felt a hand close over his right wrist as he was pulled out of the burning room and into the hallway. 

________________________________________________

Hurtling down the hallway, Grantaire did his best to keep his iron grip on Enjolras' wrist, pulling him along with him in his run, a job the blond did not make easy as he continued to struggle against him and try to jerk free.

“No—the map—we need it! Mr. Grantaire please! The map—!” Grantaire abruptly stopped and pushed the shorter man up against the wall, crowding into his space and pinning his writhing wrists on either side of his head. 

“Relax! I’m the map, it’s all up here!” He removed one hand and tapped at his forehead. Enjolras looked up at him in incredulous disbelief.

“That’s not comforting at all!” he cried frantically. Grantaire gave him an exasperated look as he pulled Enjolras forward once more and started sprinting down the halls, Enjolras’ wrist locked in his grasp again. 

“Come on, there’s still one more of those guys around here somewhere.”

________________________________________________

The sound of gunfire and the smell of smoke coming from Enjolras’ room had Courfeyrac sprinting down the deck towards the hall of rooms. On his way down, Coufeyrac tried his best not to panic; it wasn’t necessarily gunshots he had heard, was it? And maybe Enjolras had simply been a little careless with his candles and perhaps set the curtains on fire again; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Yes, there was no guarantee that Enjolras was in immediate danger.

Those thoughts all dissolved as soon as some warrior had attacked the group on the deck, prompting a gunfire duel in which all the Americans drew their weapons and hid behind the tables for cover, shooting at some unseen enemy. Courfeyrac, however, was a lot more concerned with the smoke coming from below deck, so, ignoring the Professor’s words, he sprinted through the barrage of bullets and jumped down the stairs. 

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Courfeyrac doubled over as he inhaled a large cloud of smoke, his lungs trying to dispel the harmful gas through a fit of coughing. Through blurry eyes, he could make out the fanning flames originating from Enjolras’ room. 

“ENJOLRAS!”

He sprinted towards the doorway, but before he made it in there, a hand around his wrist yanked him back. Frantically, he turned back around and found himself face-to-face with the bespectacled face of the Professor, who was desperately trying to catch his breath from coughing.

“Courfeyrac, you can’t go in!” he wheezed. Courf wrenched his hand from his grip.

“MY BROTHER IS IN THERE!” he yelled. He sprinted into the room, eyes darting around for a familiar head of blond curls. He cursed; he couldn’t make out a single thing in the haze of the smoke and the brightness of the flames. 

“ENJOLRAS!” he screamed. His calls were to no avail; he didn’t see the man anywhere. Praying that he had simply somehow made it out, Courfeyrac turned to leave when he suddenly spotted the puzzle box he had given Enjolras on the ground. He bent to pick it up, but as he did, he felt someone tackle him to the ground, grabbing the box out of his hands. Struggling back to his feet, Courfeyrac finally noticed the man dressed in similar garb to the one who had attacked them on the deck. He was holding the puzzle box in his hands and attempting to escape. Courfeyrac surged forwards.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER’S YOU BASTARD!” Tackling the man to the ground, Courfeyrac found himself struggling to pull the box out of the man’s grasp. Then, the man pulled out a knife and rolled over him, bringing the knife down towards Courf’s chest. He brought the hand that wasn’t still fighting for the box to stop the man’s knife. Arm’s shaking, he felt his strength fade as the knife began to lower closer to his chest.

_WHAM!_

Suddenly, the man collapsed on top of him with a groan. Taking advantage of the moment, Courfeyrac ripped the box out of his hands and rolled out from underneath him. Above him, Professor Combeferre, glasses askew, stood over the man with a curtain rod in his hands. As Courfeyrac got to his feet, he stared at the Professor with wide eyes. 

“Did you kill him?” he asked in awe. The Professor shook his head, pale. 

“Merely knocked him out, I think,” he replied. 

_Wow,_ Courfeyrac thought, _that was hot._

Thinking that there may still be a chance he might die on this ship, Courfeyrac thought that he should probably voice his sentiments in case he didn’t have the opportunity to do so. 

So he did. 

In a sudden burst of bravado, he grabbed a fistful of Professor Combeferre’s shirt, and pulled the man close to him, pressing a hard kiss to his mouth. 

“Sorry,” he said as he pulled away, “but I've been meaning to do that for years.” It certainly was no Paris, but Courfeyrac supposed he’d just have to make do with what he had. The Professor gaped at him in shock, brain seemingly short-circuiting. “Listen,” he started, unable to finish as he broke into a coughing fit. “I’d love to talk about this sometime, but I really think we should get out of here so we can actually breathe. And we need to find Enj.” When it was clear the Professor would neither be forming any coherent thoughts or reacting to anything Courf was saying, he grabbed him by the hand and led them out the room and back up to the deck. 

Up on the deck, the Americans still seemed to be exchanging gunfire. Bullets whizzed through the air and ricocheted off surfaces every-which-way. Courfeyrac shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Americans,” he muttered when a hand suddenly pulled him and Professor Combeferre down behind the protection of a flipped table, acting as a sort of barricade from the enemy. 

“Be careful!” Bahorel hissed at them as he peeked over the table and opened fire on the man who had wrestled with Courfeyrac back in the room. He ducked back down. After a few moments, Bahorel looked back over the table again, returning quickly and hauling the two other men to their feet. “Go, go!” he shouted. Courfeyrac turned to see what was going on and went pale. A stampede of horses was making its way over towards them. Grabbing the Professor’s hand and praying Enj was safe somewhere else, he leapt over the side of the ship and into the river. 

________________________________________________

Grantaire raced onto the deck, Enjolras behind him as he scanned the frenzy of the attack. The Americans seemed to be shooting off their guns at anything and everything. All around them, people were screaming and shouting, running in panic and trying to escape. He gripped his pistol firmly in one hand and Enjolras' wrist in the other. 

_BOOM!_

Enjolras screamed as a part of the wall right next to his head was blown off by a gunshot. Grantaire pivoted himself so he was shielding the shorter man and returned fire. He spotted the last of the attackers near the horse paddock. Diving behind a table for cover, he opened fire on the man, who countered with ease. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another lantern. Forming a plan in his head, he aimed for the lantern instead, setting the deck on fire. 

_BOOM!_

Grantaire ducked for cover as the man aimed for his head. Jumping back up, he shot at the horse paddock lock this time, where the animals were going wild at the sight of fire. Now free, the horses broke into a stampede; the attacker screamed as he turned around too late and fell underneath the pounding hooves of the horses. 

Almost the entire deck had caught on fire, flames sweeping over the floor and steadily making its way towards them. Grantaire turned to Enjolras.

“Can you swim?” he asked. The blond bristled.

“Of course I can swim, if the occasion calls for it,” he replied indignantly. As he helped him to his feet, Grantaire picked Enjolras up easily, as if he weighed less than a rag doll. The man yelped.

“What are you doing—?” the blond hissed, cheeks colouring a lovely shade of rose (why was Grantaire noticing that in this situation?) 

“Trust me,” he interrupted. He held the man over the rail. “The occasion calls for it.” He dropped him into the river, listening for an impressive splash and the sound of coughing and resurfacing before diving in himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trek through the desert to Hamunaptra is long and weary. Not too bad, depending on who your riding partner is though...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Be aware of shameless self projection onto Enjolras in the history rant present. I love history, and archaeology, it's so fascinating, I really couldn't resist writing it in. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Enjolras had never felt more miserable in his life, and that included the time he had to spend the entire day at the library cataloguing everything according to alphabetical order from its previous state in accordance to timeline. He was wet, shivering, dressed only in a light shirt and linen pants that rather felt like it weighed hundreds of pounds with how much water it dripped with, and his casted wrist throbbed mercilessly. He supposed that was a plus side as he thought back to two days ago when the Professor had instructed him to ice his wrist every three hours. Though he hadn’t iced it since the past five hours, he thought his little swim in the frigid river would suffice. 

Three of the Americans, their guide Feuilly—who Enjolras found out is in the French Foreign Legion with Grantaire, his brother and the Professor—who he noticed were now avoiding each other’s gazes, the warden, and he and Grantaire ended up washing ashore, the other group and their guide having waded to the land across from them. It seemed however, that the others were on the wrong side; Grantaire had dutifully pointed this out, and the guide on the other side had let out a cry of frustration loud enough for everyone to hear. 

He felt terrible; his clothes all stuck to his skin like glue and the cold made his teeth chatter. Enjolras wrung out the corners of his wet shirt, shivering slightly as he felt Grantaire’s heated gaze follow his movements. Ignoring the urge to walk up and curl up into Grantaire, who looked warm and strong and comfortable, Enjolras walked up to where his brother and the Professor stood, awkwardly staring in opposite directions. His brother’s eyes went wide as he spotted Enjolras.

"Enjolras!” Courfeyrac pulled him in close, keeping him in his warm embrace for a few moments before pulling back to give him a feather-light kiss on the forehead. “Thank goodness you made it out safe!” he murmured. The Professor walked to stand next to them. He squinted and brushed a hand over where his attacker had cut him on the neck. 

“How’d this happen?” he asked softly, inspecting the cut. Enjolras shrugged. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he replied unconcerned. Combeferre narrowed his eyes. 

“Enjolras, we need to dress that cut.” He rolled his eyes. 

“It’s just a small cut,” he muttered. Courfeyrac placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“He’s right, Enj, you need to get that looked at.” At his words, Combeferre turned to look at his brother, who sneaked a glance at Combeferre. They both turned away once their eyes met, their cheeks going red. Enjolras squinted at them.

_What is going on between those two?_

________________________________________________

When they finally reached the Bedouin trading post, Grantaire and Enjolras' brother, Courfeyrac, attempted to negotiate with the tradesmen for a more reasonable price for the camels. Nine individual camels for each person was far too expensive, so the group decided that they would partner up and ride, bringing the number down to five camels. The group had come to a unanimous decision that it would be the warden who would ride alone, seeing as how no one wanted to share with him. Joly and Bossuet, who was one of the only ones who could properly manage what Grantaire had been informed is Joly's _hypochondria,_ had decided that they would share a camel. Next was Bahorel and Combeferre, which Grantaire thought was odd; he was almost sure that the Professor would share with Courfeyrac, but as soon as the news had been delivered that they would have to partner up, Courfeyrac had turned away and loudly exclaimed that he would love to get to know Feuilly better, and wondered whether he would like to ride with him, to which Feuilly couldn't refuse lest he look rude. That had left Grantaire with… 

When Grantaire realized that he would be sharing his camel with— who he would be sitting in close proximity to, and wrapping his arms around, he turned to quirk an eyebrow at the younger man, who had coloured a furious red. Grantaire couldn't blame him; the thought of having his body pressed up close behind the blond made his heart race and his breath quicken. He wasn't used to this feeling; sure, in the past he'd had all manners of people fawn over him and try to flirt their way into his arms, but he'd never really felt anything for them. This boy, however, was different in a way Grantaire couldn't put his finger on. He was bright and inquisitive and passionate, and he had a sort of charming spark that he had never seen in anyone else… 

Grantaire shook his head. This was not why he was here. His mission had nothing to do with Enjolras. He was simply here to guide him to Hamunaptra. Nothing else. 

Permanent feelings weren't part of the job.

"I can't believe the price of these fleabags." Courfeyrac's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He shot the man a grin. 

"Well we could've had them for free, all we had to do was give them your little brother." He winked. Courfeyrac laughed good-naturedly. 

"Yes, awfully tempting, wasn't it?" 

"Awfully." 

"I can hear you, you know!" From his left, the annoyed voice of Enjolras made itself clear as the blond stepped out of the tent and— _wow._

_He's beautiful._

Even in a simple, airy black linen shirt tucked into a pair of khakis, which were in turn tucked into a pair of boots made for walking through sand, Enjolras managed to stand apart from the rest of the crowd. His blond hair looked as if it were weaved from the rays of the Egyptian sun itself, as if he were Apollo himself. 

Quite simply, even in regular, plain clothing, Enjolras was the most beautiful person Grantaire had laid his eyes on, and he would do perhaps anything just for Enjolras to continue to look at him and afford him his time of day, even if it was to glare at him. 

His mouth ran dry as Enjolras huffed and turned away. "Then again…" 

________________________________________________

Enjolras had never been this self conscious in his life. 

At the current moment, he was sitting atop a camel as they made their way through the blistering heat of the desert, his tiny body engulfed in Grantaire's arms, which were wrapped around him, arms big enough that they encompassed him from the waist all the way up to his torso. He was aware of how every breath he took could be felt by the bigger man, every swallow, every nervous hitch. 

It was nerve racking. 

"You're too tight," he heard Grantaire murmur from behind him. This, however, just made him freeze up more. He shivered a little as Grantaire hummed low into his ear. "You need to relax more. How do your muscles not strain themselves?" he asked quietly. Enjolras closed his eyes and simply shook his head. "Well," Grantaire gently took his arms off his waist, "maybe you could start by loosening your grip on the reigns. Trust me, the camel isn't going to suddenly start sprinting off." Grantaire placed his large, rough hands over Enjolras' own dainty ones. "Loosen up. This much pressure isn't good for your healing wrist." Swallowing nervously, he flexed his fingers a bit before visibly relaxing the tension in his hands. He could almost hear Grantaire smiling. "See, now was that so hard?" the man asked, chuckling gruffly again. 

Oh. That chuckle. It did things to Enjolras. He felt his stomach flutter again. 

________________________________________________

The sky had turned dark enough that the heat of the desert finally tamped itself down to a more bearable level.

Grantaire realized exactly when Enjolras nodded off. 

For the past hour (or so it felt; he hadn't remembered to bring a pocket watch) Grantaire observed as the younger man began to slump forwards more and more, eyes closing every once in a while before he would force them back open, glancing back at Grantaire, who would pretend he didn't notice. As the time passed by, Grantaire realized that it was his tightened grip on the man's waist that was the only thing keeping him from completely slumping up against the saddle. He reached forward and pulled on the reigns to halt their motion. 

"Hey," he whispered softly, gently shaking the blond out of his slumber. The man looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Enjolras, do you wanna trade places with me?" The blond blinked at him, eyes clouded with the confusion of sleep. It was clear that not a single word Grantaire was saying was actually registering in the younger man's mind, so Grantaire sighed and carefully jumped off the camel. He reached up and pulled Enjolras back so that he could make room for himself in the front. Climbing back onto the camel, he gently took Enjolras' arms and fastened them around his own waist. Behind him, Enjolras burrowed the side of his head further into Grantaire's back and unknowingly mumbled a quiet _so strong_ in his sleep. 

Grantaire smiled and took the reigns. 

________________________________________________

“We’re almost there.” Grantaire’s voice pulled him out of his sleep. Squinting, Enjolras gazed up to see that the stars of night had long since given away to the bright light of day. How long had he been asleep? It looked almost close to noon. “How much sleep do you usually let yourself get? I’ve never seen anyone as tired as you,” Grantaire’s amused voice came from in front of him. 

Wait. In front of him? When did that happen? 

Hold on. What had he been sleeping on?

He jerked his head up to see Grantaire sitting in front of him, gripping the reigns; his own arms were wrapped around the taller man’s waist. Grantaire turned around to look at him, alerted by his shifting movements.

“Good morning, _A_ _ngel._ Sleep well?” Grantaire flashed him a lazy grin as he turned away in embarrassment and cleared his throat. 

“Sorry,” he muttered as he eased himself off Grantaire’s back. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” The man winked at him. “You’re always welcome to sleep with me again.” Enjolras flushed. Then he huffed indignantly. This would be the first and last time he would "sleep with him," that he could likely assure himself.

Or could he?

He scolded himself. What kind of a thought was that?

Ignoring that last comment, he surveyed his surroundings. 

“Did you say we’re close?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” Enjolras peered at the man’s back and pursed his lips.

“Are you sure? How can you tell?” Grantaire looked at the sand, then turned to look at him.

“Pretty sure.” He pointed to the several skeletons littering the ground in front of them. “Take a look at that.” The sight wasn’t pleasant; the bones stuck out of the ground, as if they were trying to crawl out of the desert floor towards them. He unconsciously nuzzled closer to Grantaire. 

The rest of the group came to a halt beside their camel, chattering falling silent as their eyes took in the sight in front of them. Courfeyrac visibly shuddered.

“What is this?” he asked fearfully. The warden eyed the bones grimly. 

“Previous seekers of Hamunaptra.”

________________________________________________

When they finally reached the city, he felt the breath leave his body. All his life he had dreamed of finding the lost city, and at last he was here! Enjolras felt his stomach curl with excitement; he couldn’t believe it! Buried somewhere beneath these very sands was the _Book of Amun-Ra,_ the very subject of his obsession with Egypt and his life’s pursuit since as long as he could remember.

Grantaire stopped the camel in front of where a building— _most likely a temple,_ Enjolras thought—must have once stood; in it’s ruins laid only rubble and broken pillars and columns. Enjolras watched as he jumped off the camel and tied it to the closest pillar; he extended a hand out to him, raising his eyebrows.

“Need help?” he teased. Enjolras looked him dead in the eyes as he swung his legs over, dismounting with a great jump, sending a cloud of sand and dirt swirling as his feet landed hard on the ground. 

“No.”

Eyes wandering, Enjolras felt his breath catch. He never really understood why other people haven’t ever felt excited by history and archaeology. When you thought about the cultures and groups of Mesopotamia, how could you not feel absolute awe at learning about the beginnings of civilization? How could you not ache to learn more about the Indus River Valley, feel the urge to decipher their still-uncracked language system? How could you not ponder the mystery of the strange collapse of the bronze age civilizations, and wonder whether the theories of the sea-confederacy were true or not? How could you not feel such amazement when standing on the grounds of ancient Egypt, where you know the oldest and most famous Pharaohs once walked? 

It was truly dizzying to think of all the history, all the events, all the lives that once played out on these very grounds. It was all here, waiting for Enjolras to unearth and discover. From this moment, he would be changing the world of Egyptology forever. 

With a sparkle in his eyes, he turned back to address the rest of the group. 

“Let’s get to exploring!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes begin to explore the grounds of Hamunaptra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Shit you guys I totally forgot I didn't upload the chapter yet, I don't even know how. Anyways, sorry for the delay! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

The other Americans, who called themselves Patron-Minette (why they named themselves French was a mystery) were sitting around playing poker as their hired diggers broke their backs hauling stones from the temple back-entrance. Their Egyptologist, someone with long blond hair who preferred to go by the name Jehan, looked over the expedition distastefully; they really didn’t know how they ended up caught within this group of fools. Wistfully, they watched as the other American expedition joined together with the group of Englishmen, led by the French Foreign Legion Captain and Major. Or, well, as much as those two could lead; it was quite clear to Jehan that the tiny blond was really the one in charge, judging by the way he ran around the grounds, pointing to various sights and rattling off information and historical facts too quick for anyone to catch. Jehan watched as the Captain followed the blond, mesmerized, nodding his head in agreeance, though it was clear enough that he didn’t actually know what the other man was saying.

Jehan smiled. 

________________________________________________

"This thing gives me the creeps." Courfeyrac voiced with disgust. 

Earlier in the day, the large group had decided to split back up into their previous expeditions in order to cover more ground. This had been done after Grantaire watched as Enjolras extracted several promises from the others that if they found something they would send for him. It seemed as if everyone had taken a liking to the blond, abruptly abandoning their own missions of finding the wealth of the lost city for themselves and instead looking out for the book that Enjolras had excitedly informed them about. Grantaire had followed the blond in great amusement; on the ship he had been either furious or quite deadpan with him, but now on the grounds of the ruins of Hamunaptra, he had seemed to come alive. His eyes sparkled and his hand movements quickened, drawing out hundreds of pictures as his mouth moved a mile a minute. Though it was clear that no one—save for Courfeyrac, who was obviously used to this sort of thing—actually understood what Enjolras was saying, it didn't stop the man from pointing to almost everything he could see and talking about the old Pharaohs or some middle-kingdom dynasty.

The sight had made Grantaire smile. 

What had made Grantaire truly grin, however, was when Enjolras had, in his excitement, grabbed Grantaire's hand, dragging him specifically along as he rattled off historical and archaeological trivia Grantaire pretended to understand. 

Feuilly's group decided to explore a ruin next to the temple where they had originally started, leaving Grantaire, Enjolras, the warden, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac—who seemed to be adamantly avoiding each others' gaze—standing in the wrecked ancient worship house, watching as Enjolras fiddled with some mirror. 

"Be nice, that thing saved my life," Grantaire replied as he watched Courfeyrac back away from the statue of Anubis he had previously been leaning on, and crash directly into Combeferre, who reached his hand onto Courf's shoulders to steady him. Their eyes clashed and cheeks turned red before Courfeyrac muttered an apology and turned away from the Professor's disappointed face. 

Grantaire snickered while watching them. _Those two,_ he thought, _someone needs to do something about them._

"That _thing_ ," Enjolras' voice interrupted his thoughts, "excites me." Grantaire snorted. 

"Oh, the things that _excite_ you," he remarked sarcastically. The blond threw him a brief glare before continuing to fiddle with the mirrors in the room. 

"According to Bembridge Scholars," Enjolras explained, "inside the statue of Anubis was a secret compartment, perhaps containing the _Book of Amun-Ra._ " Apparently satisfied with his fiddling, Enjolras dusted his hands off and stepped back to admire his work. Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows. 

"Okay. So what are the mirrors for?" 

Enjolras—and Grantaire did a double take to make sure his eyes had seen correctly—smiled at him.

Enjolras smiled at _him._

 _Oh God._ Grantaire wondered what else he would have to do to make the blond smile up at him like that again. 

"Bit of an ancient Egyptian trick," he replied. "You'll see." Enjolras turned away and reached for the rope that Grantaire had previously tied to the pillar. Without further preamble, he tightened his fist around it and dropped through the crevice they had been standing around. Thinking it wisest not to leave him unattended for too long, Grantaire shrugged his shoulders and jumped in after him. 

________________________________________________

_Oh my_. 

Enjolras squinted at his surroundings; underneath the ground with almost no light save from that which leaked through the crevice, he could barely make out a thing. In the dark, he searched for a mirror he knew would be positioned somewhere there. 

When he turned he was suddenly met with a large cloud of dust; he doubled over, trying to emit the irritants from his system. 

"Sorry," he heard a gruff voice say. Enjolras rolled his watery eyes. 

"It's fine," he wheezed as he resumed his search for the mirror. He walked a sizeable distance away to where he predicted it should be, according to all the images of other pyramids and passages he had seen before. Behind him three more soft _thuds_ announced the presence of the rest of the group. Combeferre's torch illuminated the room in soft light. Enjolras spun around. 

"Do you realize," he began in hushed awe, "that we are standing in a room that no one has entered in over four thousand years?" Enjolras felt his nerves sing with anticipation. He was really here! This room, that had never seen a single inhabitant for four thousand years, was open to his eyes for exploration!

He felt giddy. 

Behind him, the warden scoffed. 

"Who cares? I don't see any treasure." 

"You're welcome to my share of cobwebs," Grantaire's dry voice called back. 

"Ugh, it's so dusty in here," Courfeyrac whined. Enjolras rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Cretins," he muttered. At the sound of footsteps, he turned around to peer into Combeferre's eyes. 

"Need help?" Enjolras nodded his head.

"Try looking for a mirror, or a—a metal disk of any sort." The two set our searching until Combeferre called out for him again. 

"Is this it?" The Professor pointed to a mirror barely visible under its several layers of cobwebs. Brushing away the dust and webs, Enjolras grinned.

"That's exactly it." Fiddling with it (strictly with his right hand, as he had attempted to employ the use of his left, only to shrink away from Combeferre's sharp gaze) Enjolras positioned and repositioned the metal until he finally managed to tilt it to its correct angle. The ray of light streaming through the crevice hit the mirror, which in turn hit another mirror, which in turn hit another mirror until soon enough the room was flooded with light bouncing off of the several metal disks within it. Grantaire walked up to him and gave him an impressed look. 

"Huh. That _is_ a neat trick." 

Enjolras beamed. For a moment, Grantaire looked caught off-guard, but he quickly returned with a lopsided grin of his own.

The gesture made him smile wider, breathlessly delirious and flushed.

Now in the light, Enjolras was able to better survey his surroundings. Inside the room stood a single table, and littered on that table were various tools, ones that Enjolras had seen back in the museum, tools that he read were used for…

He gasped softly as he realized where he was standing. Grantaire looked at him in alarm. 

"What? What is it?" The taller man asked as he started to ease his pistol out of its holster. 

"This is a preparation room," he breathed. That was incredible! So far Enjolras had only ever heard tales of the sights of the various rooms of Egyptian ruins such as the temples or the royal court, but never in his life did he ever imagine that he'd actually get to stand in a real _preparation room._

"Preparation? For what?" he heard Grantaire ask as he spotted him in his peripheral vision slide his gun back into the belt. 

"Entering the afterlife," he finished dazedly as he began to walk down the narrow hall. 

________________________________________________

_Entering the afterlife? The hell?_ Grantaire drew his pistol again. Beside him, Courfeyrac snorted and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"Mummies, Grantaire. He means that this is where they made the mummies." 

________________________________________________

Grantaire jogged up next to him as he wandered through the halls of the underground. He cleared his throat; Enjolras turned to look at him and spotted a roll of leather in his hands.

“By the way,” he started. “I… um…”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Grantaire shoved the leather bundle into his hands. “This… this is for you.”

With a quizzical look, he unfurled the roll in his hands.

He felt the breath knocked out of him. 

_Oh. It was beautiful._

An archaeologist’s kit! A real, actual kit! With professional tools—picks and brushes—the whole lot! All his life, he had dreamed of having even the simplest of these tools; what they signified was so much more than just use for digging. It was so exciting!

Beaming, he glanced back up into Grantaire’s uncertain face. “Thank you! It’s so… so wonderful!” 

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, it really wasn’t much to acquire… I just ripped it off one of our other American friends—what did they call themselves, Patron-something—he probably hasn’t even noticed it’s gone, so—”

He cut himself off abruptly as Enjolras threw his arms around his neck.

“Thank you! It’s more than I could wish for!” Pulling away, he threw him one last shy smile before running off to show Courfeyrac.

________________________________________________

Grantaire stood stock still, shocked. 

“Hnnnnnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhh.”

________________________________________________

As they made their way through the labyrinth of halls, Combeferre keeping up the lead with his torch in hand next to Enjolras, Grantaire could've sworn they weren't alone in the passage. Quiet noises kept making their way to his ears, noises that sounded suspiciously like shuffling feet. 

When they reached the foot of a giant statue of Anubis, the sounds grew more insistent and _closer_. The click of a gun made itself clear in his ear. 

Grantaire cursed under his breath. 

"Psst." The rest of the group continued to move. Grantaire tried again. "Psst." In front of him, Combeferre stopped and turned around, effectively halting Courfeyrac, who spun on his heel to peer at Grantaire inquisitively. 

Enjolras kept walking. 

As silently as he could, he reached out and wrapped a hand around the blond's wrist, yanking him backwards to face him. With a soft yelp, Enjolras staggered closer, his eyes flaring.

"Wha—mmmm!" Grantaire clapped a hand over Enjolras' mouth and held up a finger to his own, gesturing for them all to be silent. Enjolras' glare burned through him. 

Carefully, Grantaire drew his pistol.

He jumped out the corner, ready to attack—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write suspense :) and the thing is, if you've seen this movie, there is literally no element of suspense present either so. But worry not, one day I will take a workshop, along with writing action. 
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter this week. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

—And almost pulled the trigger on a familiar head of fiery hair. 

"Holy shit Grantaire, you almost killed me!" Feuilly panted. Grantaire grinned at him. 

"Sorry _mon ami_ ,” he said with a horrible fake accent, “old habits die hard." The rest of Feuilly's expedition walked up to clap him on the back. 

"Well, Grantaire, did any of you find anything yet?" Bahorel asked. He shook his head, but just as he was about to open his mouth to say _no,_ Enjolras pushed past him towards Bahorel. 

"Actually yes," the blond said rather breathlessly. "We found and stood in an actual _preparation room!"_ he exclaimed. The three Americans and their guide exchanged confused looks.

"Is… is that a good thing?" Bossuet asked uncertainly. Enjolras looked at him incredulously. 

"A good thing? Of course it's a good thing!" He waved his arms around frantically. "Don't you understand? The last time that room had been put to use was nearly three thousand years ago, and the tools were still in such great conditions! They must have put some sort of preservative to keep them from decaying… It's where the mummies were made!" Joly shuddered.

"Mummy preparation techniques were so unhygienic…" he trailed off as the sound of shuffling feet made a return, causing all of their heads to snap in its direction. The group fell quiet at once, the Americans silently drawing their pistols. Grantaire reached his hand out once more for Enjolras and carefully tucked him behind his back. The blond made an indignant noise but went without further complaint. 

With a silent nod at Feuilly, he raised his pistol and jumped the corner, ready to shoot—

Claquesous, from the second American expedition threw a free hand up, his other fixed around his own revolver, as the rest of his group's was.

"Jesus, Grantaire, ya scared the shit outta us." 

Without lowering his weapon, Grantaire replied, "Likewise." None of the opposing Americans lowered their weapons, but behind Grantaire neither had those who wielded guns, that being Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and of course himself. In front of him, the dark haired man who called himself Montparnasse took a step forwards, his eyes glittering obsidian. 

"This statue we've found over here… it's ours." Grantaire narrowed his eyes at him.

"I don't see your name written anywhere on it… pal." That's when the rest of the opposing side's men decided to show up, seemingly melting out of the shadows, all but one wielding guns. Thenardier tutted as he came to stand beside Montparnasse, aiming his pistol directly between Grantaire's eyes.

"Ten to five, Grantaire. The odds aren't looking very good in your favour." Grantaire however, wouldn't let up.

"I've had worse before." The air hung thick and tense for a moment until Grantaire felt a hand gently lower his pistol. He stared at Enjolras in confusion. 

"Come on," the blond said with a roll of his eyes, "let's be nice children. If we're going to play together, we must learn to share." Grantaire blinked at him, perplexed. Why was Enjolras letting them get away with this? That book—the one he kept going on about, apparently had pursued since he was a child—it was supposedly inside of that statue, and he was just going to let it go?

“There are _other_ places to look.” Enjolras gave him a meaningful look.

_Oh._

Enjolras gently guided him by the sleeve away from the laughter of the opposing party and deep into the labyrinth.

________________________________________________

_We must be getting close to standing right underneath the statue,_ Enjolras thought as he stood on his toes and used his chisel to chip away at the ceiling. Behind him, the rest of the group did the same, using sledgehammers instead to better make indents to the surface. He paused for a moment before turning to address the rest. 

“We’re getting close to where we want to be,” he told them. Combeferre furrowed his eyebrows. 

“So that part of the statue isn’t the one we want?” Enjolras hesitated.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“So when those dirty yanks go to sleep,” Courfeyrac threw an apologetic look at Grantaire and the Americans, “sorry.” Bahorel laughed and clapped him hard on the back, sending Courfeyrac crashing into Combeferre for the hundredth time today. He backed away without looking up and glared back at Bahorel. “As, I was saying, when those dirty yanks go to sleep, we’ll steal the book from right under their noses.” Grantaire turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. 

“And you’re sure you can find that secret compartment?” he asked skeptically. Enjolras bristled.

“Yes, of course I can.” Grantaire smirked.

“Never said you couldn’t.” Enjolras let out a noise of frustration.

“Yes, but your tone indicates that you don’t believe I can.” Grantaire laughed before throwing his hands up in mock-surrender. 

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, I’m not doubting you.” His green eyes glinted with mischief. “But you’re one hundred percent sure you can find it?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras stated, voice hard. He hesitated for a moment before uncertainly adding, “As long as their Egytptologist hasn’t found it already.” Grantaire snickered.

“I knew there was some underlying clause.” Clenching his teeth, Enjolras made to move forward; he was stopped, however, by Combeferre, who gave him a knowing smile and a calming squeeze on the shoulder. Forcing himself to take a breath and relax, he turned back around and resumed his chiselling.

“Say, where did your companion go?” Feuilly’s voice came from behind. Enjolras paused once again. That was a good question; where _was_ the warden? Not that he was complaining about having gotten rid of his presence, but Enjolras didn’t trust the man not to find the book first and then abandon them all down there. 

________________________________________________

Life is a race. If you don't run fast enough, you'll end up trampled.

Standard motto, boring words. I mean seriously, how many times had you heard of that one?

But, if actually taken seriously, those words could work like a spell of magic. An incantation to make your life all the better if just listened to.

It was these words that the warden lived everyday to. Life is a race. Whoever runs the hardest and takes the shortcuts crosses the finish line first, and whoever crosses the finish line first wins the prize. 

He knew better than the boy and his bumbling band of buffoons. Search for a book when you can have gold? Bah! It wasn't even a comparison. 

Perhaps he might have shared his thoughts about the _real_ treasure hunt with the boy if he had been feeling a little more generous, but something told him the boy would not approve. Besides, even if he were to seem approachable enough, by the way the filthy, godless, son of a pig ex-prisoner constantly seemed to be standing somewhere near him—be that beside him, behind him, in front of him, one hand always reaching back to tuck him behind, always looking as if he would sock the wrong person who got too close to his little blond companion—he doubted he would be able to get near him even if he tried.

Not like it mattered, though. The Warden had no intentions of sharing his fortune. In fact, the best plan was to find the gold, take it, and make a dash for the camels. Let the rest rot. What did he care about?

As he weaved his way through the labyrinthine halls of the underground, a flash of deep purple caught his eye

His mouth twisted up into a grin of excitement.

Approaching the wall, he let his eyes widen as he lifted a hand to the wall and felt beneath his fingers shimmering jewels. What sort of jewels, the Warden didn't know. What did it matter anyways? All that mattered was that it would make him handsomely rich. 

They were shaped, oddly enough, like beetles. Gems shaped as beetles—how peculiar. 

Grinning, he flicked a switchblade and began to gather the jeweled-beetles in his palm.

________________________________________________

Jehan felt as if they should feel bad.

After all, the little blond looked so excited having arrived at Hamunaptra, a wild, passionate look in his eyes. To have taken away his chances at further happiness… it felt wrong.

At the same time, Jehan was an Egyptologist too. The opportunity that they would find the Book of the Living was simply too thrilling to let go of. Silently, they sent out an apology to the opposing expedition, but all thoughts flew out of their head as their fingers managed to brush against seams—coming apart with the feather touch of their hand.

At their side, Guelemer stepped forward to yank the seam apart and open. Frantically, Jehan stuck their arm out to stop him. 

"Stop!" they ordered, shaking their head. Releasing a breath, they said, "Seti was no fool." 

The rest of the group blinked at them, before Guelemer eventually relented and stepped aside. 

"Fine. They'll do it, then." He nodded to the three diggers standing by. 

Jehan furrowed their eyebrows. No, wait, they didn't want them to do it either. 

Montparnasse drew his gun and levelled it at the three terrified diggers. "Go on, then." 

With shovels heavy in their hands, the diggers stuck the tips into the seams. Jehan took a step back.

________________________________________________

“Wait, so you're telling me that they would stick a sharp, red hot poker up your nose, cut your brain into small pieces, then rip it all out through your nostrils?” Grantaire’s questions were endless. Never in his life had Enjolras met someone who questioned anything and everything he would say or heckle at all his explanations. It was both infuriating and a little enjoyable, as the questions gave him an opportunity to share his wealth of information with the others and got him passionate.

(Also because it meant Grantaire was paying attention to him, something that made him thrill on the inside. Not that he’d ever admit it.)

Next to him, Courfeyrac winced. “Ouch. That’s really got to hurt.” Enjolras rolled his eyes at his brother, continuing to chisel away at the ceiling. 

“It’s called mummification, Courf. You're already dead when they do this.” 

Bossuet whistled and delivered a swift blow with his sledgehammer. “It’d be enough to bring me back to life.” Enjolras shook his head.

“You people are worse than schoolboys,” he muttered. Another hard blow to the ceiling from Bahorel’s hammer noticeably shook the room. Everyone paused as the vibration came to a stop. Enjolras looked up at the ceiling uneasily. 

_CRASH!_

A hasty tug on his waist jerked him out of the way as a part of the ceiling cracked and something came crashing down where Enjolras and Courfeyrac—who had dived out of the way and tumbled onto the Professor—had previously stood. Startled and panting, he unconsciously burrowed closer to Grantaire, who wrapped strong arms around his waist, pulling him in safe and close.

Then, realizing who he was huddled up to, he tried to stagger back, flustered; Grantaire’s arms tightened around him. 

“It’s alright,” Grantaire murmured, seemingly mistaking Enjolras’ embarrassment for fear. He flushed and carefully extracted himself from his hold, coughing as the dust began to clear around the object. Squinting, he walked up closer to better inspect the mysterious item. The entire room held its breath collectively as he brushed a hand over it.

“Oh my God,” he breathed as he looked down upon the case. It was built rather like a… “I think this is a sarcophagus.” 

Combeferre came to stand by him. He peered at the object in amazement. “A sarcophagus?” he parroted. “That’s… strange.” On his other side, Courfeyrac walked up to get a better look.

“Why would they bury someone in the ceiling?” he inquired. Enjolras shook his head, mentally calculating where they were at the present moment. 

“They didn’t bury him in the ceiling; they buried him at the foot of Anubis.” 

“What does that mean?” Joly asked in fear. Enjolras racked his brain; from what could remember from his readings, being buried at the foot of a statue of the gods meant…

“This man was either of great importance, or did something horribly sinful.” From behind him, Grantaire whistled. 

“Well for his sake, I hope it’s the first.”

________________________________________________

Jehan glanced up as the ceiling above rumbled, dust coating their shoulders. Everyone paused until the shaking came to a halt. 

Montparnasse's dark eyes glittered as he levelled his gaze at the diggers paused in their work. "Did I ask you to stop?" 

Shaking their head frantically, they continued to work at the seams until they began to give way.

Jehan took another step back. And then another. Something about the air here wasn't right…

Babet yelled, "Pull!"

The diggers gave one last heave.

Jehan screamed in shrill harmony with the diggers as the statue burst open with an intense spray, dousing the diggers and filling the air with the foul stench of—Jehan blanched—the foul stench of molten skin. 

On the ground lay the skeletal remains of the three diggers, their skin melted clean off in a puddle intermixed with a green sort of fluid. 

They turned and retched up their lunch.

________________________________________________

Why the purple jewels were shaped in the form of beetles, the Warden couldn't tell you. What he could tell you is that he had made a grave mistake, and the fact that the jewel he had only just put into his satchel was now bursting through its purple encasing and pop into an actual beetle may be the reason why. 

At first he had backed up away from the bug, but it he soon realized that task would prove impossible seeing as how he _couldn't._

The warden screamed as he tried to shake off the beetle, but screamed in vain, for there under his skin, burrowed, repeated once more, _under his skin,_ was the beetle making its way up his arm. Screaming, he tore at his sleeves, only to find the beetle had disappeared into his chest. He could feel the sharp pincers as it crawled up his chest, and then feel his eyes roll backwards as it made its way to his head.

That's when it all went to hell.

________________________________________________

“Well, what does it say?” 

After they had worked together to brush off as much dirt and dust from the lid of the sarcophagus as they could, Enjolras had stepped forward to try and get a reading at the hieroglyphics and hieratics engraved on the stone. Leaning forward, he squinted at the symbols until his eyes were mere slits. Even so, he still could not make sense of what was drawn. The sight in front of him was fuzzy and disoriented, a curse he’d have to bear forever if he wanted to read without his glasses. Closing his eyes in frustration, he banged a hand against the lid and ran a hand through his hair; he groaned as he muttered _it’s pointless_ under his breath. 

Something cool and metallic slipped around his eyes onto his nose; Enjolras opened his eyes and blinked, the images below him now clear as glass. 

_What?_

He heard a chuckle.

“Figured you should probably put those on,” Grantaire murmured close into his ear. Breath stuttering, he braced himself against the sarcophagus before turning around to meet green, glinting eyes. 

"How do you have my reading glasses?" he asked in amazement. Grantaire gave him a cunning smile. 

"Swiped 'em off of you that night on the ship, remember? Seems you were a bit too preoccupied with storming away to remember to take them back." He blinked owlishly as his brain flashed back to that memory, and he felt his face heat up out of embarrassment. 

"Oh," he replied, dumbfounded. Grantaire laughed again. He reached a large hand and used a finger to push Enjolras' glasses up his face. 

"Now," he placed his hands on his shoulders and gently turned him around, "why don't you get to work and tell us all what it says." 

_Right. The sarcophagus._

Clearing his throat, Enjolras prepared to read aloud his translation of the hieroglyph engraved on the lid. He opened his mouth, but stopped short of speaking; he furrowed his eyebrows.

"What? Who was this?" Courfeyrac prompted. 

"He…he that shall not be named," he murmured in confusion. 

"Why? Is his name really that bad?" Bahorel chuckled from behind. Enjolras shook his head. 

"No… that's what's written here. He that shall not be named," he explained. _He that shall not be named?_ Enjolras had thought that everyone in Egypt had always been buried with their proper names, especially those who resided so close to the Pharaoh. This grave, however, was not only nameless, but the name had been prohibited from even being scribed on. Enjolras had never heard of such a case before. On top of that, the sarcophagus had been buried at the foot of Anubis. Something clearly went wrong here. Involuntarily, he shivered as he felt a chill make its way down his spine. 

"There's some sort of a lock here." Grantaire's voice jerked him out of his thoughts. _A lock?_ He scrambled over to where Grantaire stood, running his hands over some intricate, star shaped lock chiseled in place. Grantaire looked at him. "You say these things are made of granite with a steel interior?" 

Enjolras shook his head as he traced the shape of the lock. "Quarried granite with a cobalt lining." He peered closer. Something about the shape of the lock was distinctly familiar… 

"Well," Courfeyrac said, "whoever was in here definitely wasn't getting out." Combeferre squinted at the lock. 

"You're right. You would need a key to break through this." At being addressed Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre; when they locked eyes, Combeferre refused to look away. Because Courf thought he looked like he was going to hyperventilate, and Enjolras thought it'd be better if he didn't have to haul around an unconscious brother, he cleared his throat and tugged on his brother's hand to redirect his attention towards the sarcophagus. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both shook themselves out of their trances. 

"What kind of a lock is shaped like an all out of sorts star?" Feuilly mused. 

_There's some sort of a lock here._

_What kind of a lock is shaped like an all out of sorts star?_

_It looks sort of like a star-shaped puzzle box._

_Where is the key?_

Enjolras gasped as the realization hit him like a freight train. The puzzle box! It was a key! Excited out of his mind, he turned to his brother, shaking his arm violently. 

"Courfeyrac! That's what he was talking about! The puzzle box! It's a key!" Courfeyrac looked at him in alarm. 

"Who was talking about what, Enj? You're not making any sense." Enjolras gesticulated wildly with his free arm. 

"The man on the barge! The one who attacked me!" Beside him, Grantaire's eyes visibly darkened. "He said he was looking for some key!" All of a sudden, Enjolras stopped dead in his movements, letting go of Courfeyrac's arm and letting it thud to its side. He felt his heart sink as he realized where the key was. 

_I left it on the ship. I left the key on the ship that's now sunk thirty-six feet deep into the Nile river._

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and looked at his brother with heartbroken eyes. 

"Oh Courf I'm so stupid!" he cried. Burying his head in his hands, he continued, "I left the key on the ship! Now it's gone forever!"

"Enjolras—"

"And from what that man had said, it sounds like whatever was in here that the key was supposed to unlock was of great importance! 

"Enj—"

"We could've made possibly the greatest archaeological discovery in all of Egyptology, but because I was too stupid to grab it while running out of the room, we'll never know what's in here!" 

"Enjol—"

"How could I be so—"

"ENJOLRAS!" His head shot up, startled into silence by Courfeyrac's outburst. His brother squeezed his shoulders gently and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "Take a deep breath _little one_." Enjolras narrowed his eyes.

"I am _not_ little." Courfeyrac winked at him, satisfied with the switch in his little brother's frantic emotions. He'd rather take annoyed Enjolras over panicked Enjolras anyday.

"I would argue, but now is clearly not the moment to do so. That trick works every time." Courfeyrac began to dig through his pockets. "Let me tell you something my dear, sensitive, _adorably sweet baby brother_ ," Enjolras glared up at him intensely as he felt his cheeks heat up at the way his brother addressed him in front of everyone ( _especially Grantaire,_ a traitorous part of his mind whispered), "you may have failed, but for you, your brother can do anything, and that includes fighting off some hooligan trying to kill me for a random puzzle box." From his pocket he produced— _the key!_ Courfeyrac had the key to the sarcophagus that Enjolras had previously thought had drowned alongside the ship! All at once, his previous excitement returned to him. He held it out; Enjolras reached out to take it, but Courfeyrac snatched his hand away and held it high above his reach. "What do you say?" he teased. 

"I love you, Courfeyrac," he replied automatically and distractedly, not caring much for what the others thought of it, reciting the same response he gave whenever he wanted something from him. Courfeyrac had taught it to him when he was just four years old; he had not yet started living with Courfeyrac and his family, but because of his parents frequent business trips, "charity" galas and wealthy upperclassmen parties, and general neglect of their son, he had stayed at his house enough times for the young, impressionable boy to have adopted the notion that Courfeyrac was his older brother, a notion that still hadn't left his head (although back then, the sentence sounded more like _I wuv you Coufeya._ Courfeyrac still smiled fondly when he thought back to that memory.) His brother grinned, pleased with his answer.

"Damn right." He ruffled Enjolras' hair before handing him the key. Excitedly, he took the key and turned it over in his hands, eyes dancing over the hieratics and hieroglyphs inscribed onto it.

_This is it! Oh my God this is it!_

The rest watched with rapt attention as Enjolras lowered the key closer to the lock. Every nerve of his singed with anticipation. What would he be finding in here? A mummy? Weapons? Rare jewelry? 

_Perhaps even the Book of Amun-Ra,_ his mind thought excitedly. He clicked the key into place and got ready to turn—

A scream tore through the halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for Enjolras and Courfeyrac's friendship, sue me. 
> 
> The reason Patron-Minette speak with southern American accents is because in the movie, the American expedition speaks that way, and in the brick, Victor Hugo writes the members of the gang to speak in slang, therefore I used the slang of the south and incorporated that detail in that way, if that makes sense. 
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes receive a warning about their goal at Hamunaptra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Heads up once more for poorly written action.
> 
> TW: Alcohol present and slightly dubious consent (non-graphic, nothing truly occurs, but I thought I would put it out there.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

They raced through the halls as the screams turned more and more horrific. Heart pounding, Enjolras and the rest of the group hurtled down the labyrinth until they finally stumbled upon the room that seemed to be the source of the screams. With their pistols drawn, those who carried weapons made their way into the room first, Grantaire annoyingly pulling Enjolras back when he tried to step in before him. 

As he rushed into the room, Enjolras stood on his toes to look over the crowd of heads gathered inside. His eyes widened in horror as he caught a glimpse of the warden, who seemed to be going… well… no better way to put it, absolutely bat-shit insane. He ripped at his hair, clawed at his skin, and ran around the room screaming in agony. The group stood paralyzed before Joly and Combeferre, acting on their vows taken when they had sworn the Hippocratic Oath, rushed forwards. They made a grab at the warden's hands, but the man shoved them away, barrelling past the crowd and into the hallway.

_SMACK!_

The warden hit his head on hard rock and dropped to the ground dead. Enjolras breathed hard, eyes wide in terror. 

Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around him and stroked his hair soothingly as he rested his chin on top of Enjolras' head, murmuring a quiet stream of _it's okay_ s into his ear. He clutched tight to his brother's shirt and shuddered.

________________________________________________

"What do you think killed him?" Bossuet's hushed voice carried itself on the wind of the campground. It was the question they had all been wondering ever since the warden had dropped dead in front of them after his little psychotic incident earlier in the day. Enjolras had gone noticeably quieter after the ordeal, something that had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the group, who attempted to cheer him up in all sorts of manner. Grantaire had simply draped an arm around him and held him close as they walked out the labyrinth, something that pleased Enjolras immensely; he craved the man's warmth and comforting arms around him. 

At the current moment, he sat sandwiched in between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had put aside _whatever it was_ that was going on between themselves, and banded together to make Enjolras feel better. 

The gesture made him smile. 

In front of them, Joly snorted. "Did you see the way that man ate? His health was bound to catch up with him." This earned a laugh from the friends. In his peripheral, Enjolras spotted Grantaire heading up to them. 

"Seems the second American expedition had a bit of a misadventure of their own today. Three of their diggers were killed." Enjolras sat up, eyebrows furrowing. 

_Three of their diggers died?_ "How?"

"Salt acid," Grantaire replied simply. "Pressurized salt acid. Some sort of ancient booby trap, apparently." Bossuet shivered. 

"Maybe this place is cursed," he said, rubbing at his arms. Despite the day's events, Enjolras rolled his eyes. The corner of Grantaire's lip twitched. 

"Don't believe in curses, huh?" he asked, looking at Enjolras in amusement. Enjolras gave him a flat look. 

"No. I believe that if I can see it and if I can touch it, then it's real." Grantaire smirked at him; he bent down and leaned in close. 

"Yeah, Angel? Well I believe in being prepared." He looked Enjolras in the eyes, who stared at him straight back, unimpressed. Then, all of a sudden, Grantaire's expression changed, turning from smug and flirtatious to calculating and analytical. He dropped one ear to the ground. Just as Enjolras was about to ask him what he was doing, the sound of gunshots exploded through the air. Grantaire cursed. 

"You four," he pointed to the men who carried pistols with them, "follow me!" He turned back around to face Enjolras, shoving the rifle he had been carrying with him into his hands. "You," he pointed at Enjolras, "stay here!" Enjolras watched as Grantaire ran off towards the Americans' camp, his words _"stay here"_ echoing around when he felt a sudden surge of indignation. _Stay here?_ Did Grantaire really just ask him to _stay here_ while his friends were in need of assistance, while his friends were out there risking their lives? How dare he! Enjolras was no damsel in distress! He would _not_ sit by and watch while his friends were out there fighting, and something in the rest of his friends' faces told him that they wouldn't be doing that either, and the way Combeferre suddenly leaped up and started sprinting across the sand simply affirmed it. Steeling his resolve, he tore after Grantaire in the night, the stars his guide to the fight. 

________________________________________________

Courfeyrac was speeding through the night, praying that Enjolras had listened to Grantaire's instructions and just stayed put. Though he knew Enjolras knew enough on how to shoot and aim a gun, Courfeyrac would rather just have him stay out of harm's way. Maybe it was just those protective older brother instincts kicking in. 

As he ran to keep up with Grantaire, he felt a hand close over his elbow and jerk him back. Turning around suddenly, he just barely avoided crashing into Combeferre, who looked flushed and was panting from running hard. 

"Oh my God," the Professor wheezed out, "I have been trying to talk to you all day!" Courfeyrac looked at him like he was crazy. 

"You want to talk right now of all times?" he asked incredulously. For a moment, the Professor said nothing, but as Courfeyrac was about to turn back around, he shook his head and spoke up. 

"No, I don't want to talk," he finally said. 

"Um, okay," Courfeyrac furrowed his eyebrows before moving to turn away, "good chat then." Before he could completely turn around, however, he felt a hand close over his wrist. He yelped as he was drawn towards the Professor, who slammed his mouth onto his. Courfeyrac froze. After a few moments, he felt the grip leave his wrist and Combeferre pulled away. 

"Sorry," the man said, "but I've also been meaning to do that for years." Courfeyrac stared at him, dumbfounded. The Professor peered at him. "We really should talk about this later." He took Courf by the wrist again, "But first, we've got to go help out." With that, Courfeyrac dazedly felt himself be pulled forwards until he was once again breaking into a run.

________________________________________________

In front of him, Grantaire spotted about two dozen enemy riders firing their rifles into the previously-peaceful night sky. All around the grounds, the sound of pounding hooves intermingled with the explosion of gunshots as the Americans attempted to return fire. A chorus of raw screams tore through the fabric of night as a few of the American’s diggers collapsed to the ground, bodies riddled with bullets. Grantaire watched as Montparnasse leapt from the cover behind his tent and shot at several of the enemy riders with a cold, calculating gaze. 

Babet jumped straight for an approaching rider, who slashed him down with a scimitar; Claquesous and Guelemer ran to his aid, firing at anyone who stood in the way. Grantaire raced to take cover up against a tent.

_SMACK!_

Grantaire crashed into a very familiar man who seemed to be trying to turn tail and run far from the line of enemy fire. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” Thenardier tried giving him an unafraid grin. 

“Grantaire! My old friend, I was looking for you! Just wanted to find out where you were!” Grabbing him by the collar, Grantaire started dragging the man back to the camp under siege.

“C’mon, friend,” he gritted out. 

Thenardier struggled immensely. “Why do you like fighting so much?” 

“‘Cause I look hot doin’ it,” he replied shortly, mind unnecessarily flashing back to a familiar, unimpressed head of blond hair. Heart pounding, Grantaire turned to see a galloping rider raise his scimitar at him. He let go of Thenardier and aimed with his pistol, shooting and rolling out of the way as another attacked raised their rifle. 

_BOOM!_

A man fell off of his horse as Grantaire returned fire. Behind him, the sound of a sword being drawn alerted him; he ducked as he turned around and shot at the man’s back. 

_BOOM!_

The scent of smoke filled the air. When he turned to look, he spotted brilliant orange flames licking up at the sky as an explosion from a thrown stick of dynamite landed itself at the tent Grantaire tried to reach. He cursed and changed courses, heading for the temple. 

Gunshots sounded through the air. Sweat intermingled with the smell of the smoke from the fire. He raised his pistol and shot at an approaching rider. 

_BOOM!_

An explosion rumbled the ground. The temple was under fire. He spotted Courfeyrac throw a stick of dynamite as Bahorel shot at it and set the ruins ablaze. Screams reverberated as dozens of enemy riders suddenly found themselves on fire. 

_BOOM!_

At the encampment, a rider fell to the ground, injured as Combeferre, wielding Courfeyrac’s gun, took deadly aim at an enemy aiming for Joly. The young doctor’s pounding footsteps echoed across the attack site as he raced towards the injured Americans. 

_SLASH!_

Grantaire barely rolled out of the way as a rider brought a scimitar down where his shoulder had previously been. He rose to his knees and shot at the man’s back. 

“OPEN FIRE!” Feuilly’s command signalled the barrage of bullets that pierced through the air as dozens of enemy soldiers toppled to the ground. Those who remained returned fire. Feuilly dived out of the way as the remaining diggers fell under the shower of bullets.

“Bossuet watch out!” Grantaire raised his arm and shot at an approaching soldier who attempted to slash the man as he wrestled with another. Behind him, a long-haired blond who Grantaire had seen with the Americans lifted his rifle and brought it down over the man, who went limp over Bossuet’s body. 

In his haste to warn Bossuet, Grantaire did not notice an enemy attacker raise his scimitar at him. Too late, he turned around.

_BOOM!_

The man dropped dead, his horse charging past him. Behind the dead body was Enjolras, skin pale and eyes wide, wielding the rifle he had left him with. The force of the gunshot had thrown him backwards flying through the air, landing in the sand. Behind him, a tall man raised his scimitar and aimed for Enjolras. Grantaire cursed aloud.

“ENJOLRAS!” He raced across the dunes and raised his gun as the scimitar fell to strike. The gun was ripped out of his hands as it careened through the air out of his hands. He ducked and fell to the ground, pulling Enjolras with him as he rolled through the sand dunes. He felt the smaller man gasp and grip on tight to his arms.

 _Where is it? Where is it?_ His hands frantically scrounged through his pockets until the familiar feel of a stick of dynamite brush his fingers. He closed his hands around the stick. The heat of the temple fire singed the hairs of his arms. Rising to his feet, he reached the fuse over to a flame and lit the dynamite up. 

_I don't have much time._

Grantaire held the stick firmly in his hands as he turned up to face what seemed to be the lead of the enemy. The man lowered his scimitar to Grantaire's face; Grantaire refused to look away.

In his hand, the fuse of the dynamite continued to shrink as the fire consumed it. The sounds of the battle continued to rage on around them as Grantaire and the man locked eyes. 

"HEED JAVERT'S WORDS AND LEAVE THIS PLACE!" The man yelled. "LEAVE THIS PLACE OR DIE! " With a swift whistle, the man retreated, his dozens of soldiers riding behind him, leaving the campsite in tatters. 

_FISS…._

Frantically, Grantaire lobbed the stick of dynamite as far as he could, dropping to his knees and gathering Enjolras in his arms, shielding him from the sight of the blast. Enjolras smuggled in closer.

They both sat there like that for a moment, hearts still pounding in rhythm, before Grantaire used a hand to gently lift Enjolras' head; he looked into his eyes. 

"Are you alright?" he murmured. Eyes wide, Enjolras nodded at him jerkily. 

"Yes… I'm… I'm fine, thank you." Grantaire peered at him for a moment longer; he watched as Enjolras swallowed nervously and fumbled with his hands. Carefully, he helped the man up onto his shaky legs, keeping steady, anchoring hands on his waist. Enjolras' cheeks were dusted a lovely rosy shade. Grantaire brushed a hand lightly over it, fingers caressing the burning patch of skin. Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned closer into his touch. 

"See, that proves it!" Babet's voice cut through the otherwise suddenly-silent air. Enjolras made to move out of Grantaire's hold, but he tightened his grip on the blond. For a moment, it seemed as if he was going to struggle, but it passed, and Enjolras sagged against Grantaire's chest, letting himself be held in the taller man's warm embrace. Grantaire smiled a little as he felt the blond huddle in closer. "Old Seti's fortune's gotta be hidden under this sand!"

The rest of the group, alongside the members of the second American expedition, had made their way over to where they had been standing. Courfeyrac glanced at the two huddled up in each others' arms before shooting Grantaire a smirk. Grantaire smirked back as he raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac and Combeferre's interlocked hands. 

"For them to protect the land like this… it does give away the fact that the treasure must be here…" Montparnasse stated in his posh, prim and proper language. Internally, Grantaire wondered how such a refined man could come into the company of such ruffians such as the ones he had come on the expedition with. 

Grimly, Grantaire shook his head. "These men are a desert people. They value water, not gold." 

________________________________________________

After the recent turn of events, it had only seemed reasonable to the group that they deserved a drink for their valiant efforts in the fight. Courfeyrac had found a bottle of good wine in the late warden's pouch, and they had passed the bottle around from person to person, each taking a few greedy sips. Joly and Combeferre, ever the health conscious individuals they were, abstained from the practice, Combeferre because he simply did not enjoy the practice of getting drunk, and Joly because the sight of everyone's lips touching the same bottle made him want to cry. 

Grantaire hadn't planned on being one of those individuals who abstained, but after witnessing tiny Enjolras—who he doubted could hold down even the smallest sip of wine—take five large gulps from the bottle, he decided it would probably be best if someone were to stay sober and watch over the blond, especially since Courfeyrac was well on his way to becoming absolutely shit-faced drunk, and Combeferre had already fallen fast asleep.

Now, in the deep of the night, Grantaire watched in amusement as Enjolras pranced around, drunk out of his mind, mumbling nonsense and not at all acting like the mature, collected person he usually was. The crackle of the fire was the only other sound in the quiet camp, as everyone else had already gone to sleep. 

Grantaire held the nearly-empty bottle out to the blond, who closed his eyes and shook his head, swaying where he stood. 

"Unlike my brother, sir," he slurred as he pointed to where Courfeyrac laid next to Combeferre, motionless, "I know when to say no." Grantaire chuckled amusedly and threw out the rest of the bottle. 

"Unlike your brother," he quirked an eyebrow, "you, Angel, I don't get. You're a whole new brew." Enjolras waved his hands dismissively as he tripped over his feet trying to get closer to where Grantaire was sitting.

"I know, I know, you're probably thinking: what's a place like me doing in a boy like this?" He gestured wildly to the surrounding air around him, and then to himself. Grantaire grinned. 

"Yeah, something like that," he replied. 

"Well," Enjolras started dramatically, "Egypt is my home! I used to read about Egypt whenever my parents would go away on their _stupid_ business trips. They never really cared about me, but I always had my book of Egyptian stories to tell myself in bed when my own parents wouldn't. And then Courf's parents got me even more books about Egypt… Egypt was there when my parents were never. And Courfey… Courfe…" he let out a rather heart melting noise of frustration, "Courf always said he wanted to be a swashbuckling adventurer who raided the treasures of Egypt when he grew up, and I thought that sounded cool, so…" Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him, still smiling. 

"Okay, I get why you _like_ Egypt, and I get why your brother's here, but I still don't understand why _you're here._ " Enjolras looked at him, affronted and positively insulted. He staggered closer to Grantaire. 

"I—" he slurred very loudly, prompting Grantaire to shoot a nervous glance at the sleeping camp, "—I may not be an _explorer_ , or a—a _treasure_ _hunter_ , or a _gunfighter,_ Mr. Grantaire, but I am very proud of what I am!" He stared at the blond in amusement as he staggered closer. 

"Really? And what's that?" he asked. 

Enjolras threw his arms up into the air and lifted his head high and proud as he announced, "I… am a librarian!" He dropped next to Grantaire and leaned in close enough for him to smell the liquor on his breath. Enjolras' bright blue eyes looked intently into his own. "And now, Mr. Grantaire," he whispered, "I am going to kiss you, and you are going to pull me into your lap and kiss me back." Grantaire chuckled quietly as he rested his hands on the blond's shoulders, stopping him from moving forwards. 

"No, you're not, and neither will I." Enjolras blinked, confused. 

"We're not?" he asked innocently. He sounded years younger than what he really was in this state. Grantaire gave him a soft smile. 

"Not unless you stop calling me Mister," he said. Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows adorably. 

"Why would I do that?" 

"Because I want you to call me by your equal." Enjolras gave him a goofy smile before he closed his eyes and leaned in. Grantaire closed his own and leaned closer. Hot breath ghosted across his face—

He felt a soft _whump_ and looked down to see the man passed out, slumped face-first onto his chest. 

Grantaire smiled and pulled him in closer, adjusting Enjolras’ body so that he was cradled against his chest, head resting on his heartbeat. Gently stroking his soft blond hair, Grantaire thought:

_Okay, so maybe I am catching feelings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today has been a good day for America, the fight for the will of the people, and democracy :)
> 
> Writing drunk Enjolras is always one of my most favourite things even though I've never had alcohol in my life, so while it may be something fun to write, I'm totally inexperienced.
> 
> Someone under the influence of alcohol cannot give their consent... this story takes place in the 1920's, a time period with less needed regulation present regarding topics such as consent, but in our present day, this would absolutely not be allowed. I'll repeat it again: you CANNOT CONSENT under the influence of alcohol.
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes make a discovery and Enjolras' curiosity gets the best of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> I don't actually know how hangovers work :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Head pounding, Enjolras groaned loudly. "I am never drinking again." 

Behind him, the rest of the group snickered. "Man, Enjolras, if you think that's bad, you should've seen me at my graduation party," Bahorel called out. 

"You would’ve never survived in the American schooling system," Bossuet informed him solemnly. 

Beside them, Joly snorted. "The only ones who were dying in there were you two. Not all of us are raging drunkards, you know." Combeferre gave him a sympathetic look. 

"Hold on, Enjolras," he said, "the hangover will go away eventually." Shaking his head, Enjolras quietly thought to himself that it really wasn't the hangover that was bothering him. He had avoided Grantaire's gaze all morning as the memories of last night came flooding back to him when he had first opened his eyes. Enjolras couldn't believe himself! How could he have acted so stupid? He almost kissed the man! Not only that, but when he woke up, he found himself curled up warm in Grantaire’s arms, although he had to admit, that was something that he didn’t mind entirely; he did think that he really needed to stop falling asleep on top of the man before it became a habit, though. When he had first opened his eyes that morning and found himself tangled up, gripping the man’s shirt as Grantaire grinned down at him, his first thought was to wish for death as swift as possible. Groaning again, he tried his best to ward off the headache stemming from the pressure building between his eyes and the pressure building inside his heart. 

A familiar hand rubbed at his back. "Is it really that bad?" Enjolras' eyes flew open as he staggered back, his gaze—in spite of himself—darting to look into Grantaire's concerned ones. Grantaire stepped closer and cupped a hand to his cheek, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and lean into the touch. 

"Alright?" He hummed in satisfaction, until he realized what he was doing and who he was doing it in front of. Jerking back, he snapped his eyes open to look at the rest of the group, who were staring. Well, except for Courfeyrac. Courf was smirking. 

Enjolras gave him a cunning smile in return as he watched Courfeyrac's own face go red when the Professor absentmindedly took his hand in his own.

________________________________________________

"There is a curse upon this chest." 

Jehan watched as no one paid any attention to what they said. The Americans—with the exception of Montparnasse—were all busy breaking their backs digging a chest out of the secret compartment they had found earlier in the day. Jehan sighed in frustration. "Did you hear me?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Babet muttered, "curse my ass." Their mouth went flat. 

"You know, in these hallowed grounds, that which was set forth in ancient times is as strong today as it was then." Claquesous snorted. 

"Who cares?" Jehan clenched their mouth.

_Fine. Let them suffer the consequences._

Under the gaze of the ratty man, Thenardier, and the barrel of Montparnasse's gun, he hunched over to read the hieratics engraved on the chest the men pulled out.

"Death will come on swift wings to whoever looks upon the opening of this chest," their voice ran clear through the suddenly-silent room. Satisfied that they were able to strike even the slightest bit of fear into these fools' hearts, they continued, "It says there is one, the undead, who, if brought back to life, is bound by sacred law to consummate this curse." Around them, the men laughed. Jehan felt their hackles rise. 

"Yeah, well then let's just make sure we don't bring anybody back from the dead, huh?" Guelemer snickered.

"He will kill all who open this chest," they continued in irritation. They were really starting to think over what made them agree to this job in the first place. "He will assimilate their organs and fluids." 

"So ya mean like eat 'em?" Claquesous asked, a little hesitant. Jehan nodded their head grimly. 

"And in doing so, he will regenerate. And no longer be the undead, but a plague upon this earth." At their words, the Americans started uneasily at the chest. 

"Well," Montparnasse's cold words cut through the heavy atmosphere, "what are you waiting for? Open it!" 

Jehan pinched the bridge of their nose.

________________________________________________

_Click._

With the twist of his key, Enjolras watched as the sarcophagus lid began to whirr, the strange mechanics inside of it turning to unlock itself for Enjolras to discover. Bahorel and Grantaire stepped forward to deal with the lid. After a whole lot of grunting and pushing (and a lot of Enjolras staring dazedly as Grantaire— _big and strong_ —worked) they finally managed to push off the stone lid. They grabbed each end of the wooden tomb and dropped it to the ground. Grantaire caught Enjolras looking flushed. He grinned. 

"Impressed, Angel?" Blushing a deeper crimson, Enjolras ignored Grantaire's chuckle as he pushed his way past him to crouch and take a better look at the actual tomb. With the eight of them all crowded around, he had to squeeze through to stand at the center. As he brushed off the dirt, he couldn’t help but feel the excitement curl in his stomach. 

“Oh my God,” he murmured under his breath, “I’ve dreamed about this sort of thing since I was a child.” Next to him, Courfeyrac snickered. 

“You’re still a child, Enj.” 

“No, Courf, you’re the child.”

"Fantastic retort, Enjolras. Really blew me away."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You dream about dead guys?”

“More than you, yes,” he deadpanned. His breath hitched as he felt a large hand place itself on the small of his back. 

“Are you sure?” Grantaire leaned low and whispered into his ear. He shivered once before throwing a glare at him. Grantaire smirked. _Oh my._ That smirk made his insides squirm and his toes curl with something akin to desire, a feeling he did his best to tamp down before his cheeks decided to do anything traitorous. 

Huffing, he turned back, clearing off the last of the cobwebs. When his fingers brushed against the rough chiselling on the surface of the wood, he froze. The sight in front of him sent a chill racing up his spine; on the surface of the tomb lid, he could spot no sort of inscription, none of the usual enchantments that would be carved on to protect the dead through their journey into the afterlife. In its place, instead, was a series of violent chips, as if the incantations that had previously been there had been hacked away. Enjolras frowned. How could a tomb not have any sort of engraving on it?

“Look,” he murmured, gesturing to the already-squished up crowd to come closer, “all the sacred spells have been chiseled off. The hieratics and hieroglyphics that protect the deceased on their journey into the afterlife…they’ve been removed…” he trailed off as he traced his fingers over the chiselled marks again. Shuddering involuntarily, he continued, “This man here… he was cursed… doomed.” Glancing around, Enjolras found that no one—well, with the exception of Combeferre, a man of academics, of course—had really paid any attention to what he said, all peering down at the tomb in excitement; he bristled at being ignored. 

“Tough break,” Grantaire said, his eyes firmly trained on the lid of the tomb in anticipation. 

“Yes, I’m all in tears,” Courfeyrac muttered hastily as his hands itched to lift up the lid, “now let’s see who’s inside.” Rolling his eyes, Enjolras huffed and began to fumble with the key again.

“I can’t believe you people.” Inserting the key into place, he listened for the sound of a click and twisted. With a loud hiss, the top cracked open. Immediately, the entire group turned away, doubling over and gagging as the stench of death and decay wafted up from underneath. 

_That can’t be right,_ Enjolras thought as he did his best trying not to breathe in through his nose, _it shouldn’t smell anything like… like rotting flesh…_

Grunting, Grantaire grabbed at the top and pulled with his might, only to lose his grip and stumble back. With a nod of his head, he tried at it again, this time with the added effort of Bahorel; the lid began to give way in agonizingly slow speed. Subtly, everyone leaned in closer with bated breath as the lid lifted up further and further. Enjolras strained his neck to see what was inside. 

_This is it this is it!_

Suddenly, the top popped off, sending the lid crashing back behind them, and out burst the rotten corpse of the mummy hiding inside. The room echoed with the shrill sound of everyone’s screams as they jumped back from the hideous sight. Enjolras shrieked and jumped back into Grantaire's hold, eyes wide; Grantaire fastened his arms around him. Breathing hard, Enjolras let his eyes roam over the corpse. It really wasn’t a pleasant sight; the body was mangled up—twisted, horribly defomed, maggots crawling all over. Shaking Grantaire’s arms off, he slowly creeped up to the mummy, gesturing for the rest of the group to follow him, which they did reluctantly. 

________________________________________________

Jehan watched with wide eyes as the Claquesous and Babet began to pry away at the lid. Behind him, Thenaradier’s fearful muttering grew more frantic and incessant. 

“The curse… beware the curse!” They watched as Thenardier turned tail, sweating profusely and bolted from the chamber, still screaming about the curse. 

_It’s good to know at least someone knows when to run._

Behind him, Montparnasse sighed and scrubbed at his face. “Superstitious bastard…” 

The breaking of the seal had Jehan averting their gaze, gasping as a sudden burst of black vapour engulfed the room around them. 

________________________________________________

“Is he… is he supposed to look like that?” Grantaire asked uncertainly. Enjolras shook his head dazedly, chilled to the bone by the sight in front of him. 

“No… I’ve, well, I’ve never seen a mummy look like this. He’s still so… so…” 

“Juicy?” Courfeyrac offered. It was a testament to just how engrossed Enjolras was with what he was looking at that he didn’t even roll his eyes or shake his head at his brother’s words. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “He’s more than four thousand years old. Why hasn’t he decomposed yet?” 

“Um, guys?” Joly’s quivering voice came from behind. He turned around. “You might wanna take a look at this.” He pointed to the inside of the coffin lid. Crouching in front of the lid, Enjolras looked to what Joly was talking about. He felt his heart begin to race as his eyes traced over the deep scratch marks undoubtedly left by human fingernails. Mixed in with those scratches was dried blood. 

“Oh my God,” he breathed out, drawing the attention of the group. The markings inside could only mean one possible thing… “This man was buried alive.” The words sent a chill through everyone. The atmosphere of the room suddenly turned dark and tense. Shuddering, he continued, “He… he left a message, too.” The group edged in closer as Enjolras fished his glasses from his pocket and leaned in, squinting. He faltered.

“What? What does it say?” Combeferre urged. Enjolras’s mouth ran dry. 

“Death is only the beginning.”

________________________________________________

Coughing, Jehan stepped up close to the chest, eyes catching on a black bag hidden inside. Carefully, they reached their hand inside as the Americans watched in excitement; even Montparnasse held his breath while their hand closed around the feeling of a hard cover. Gasping in surprise, they drew out a book bound in black. Jehan eyed the book in awe. In all of their research, they had only heard tales of the book they now held in their possession. Turning it over in their hands, Jehan looked up at the group in amazement. 

“I have heard stories of this book,” they murmured, stroking the cover reverently, “but I never truly believed this existed. This, my good gentlemen, is real treasure; this is the _Book of the Dead!”_ Beside them, Guelemer kicked at the ground in anger, sending up a cloud of dirt. 

“I wouldn’t trade ya for a brass spittoon!” 

“It was supposed to be made of gold!” Babet exclaimed, outraged. Jehan rolled their eyes.

_Imbeciles._

Claquesous kicked hard at the tomb, jumping back when a compartment inside opened up, five jewel encrusted canopic jars tumbling out. Jehan noticed that one of them was shattered, jewels spilling everywhere. Montparnasse shoved past them, quickly dropping to his knees and taking a jar in his hands. The man smiled deviously. 

“You’re wrong Jehan,” he turned the jar over in his hands, “ _this_ is real treasure.”

________________________________________________

With great reluctance, Grantaire agreed to allow the other Americans to join their camps together. It really wasn’t his decision; if it were up to him, he would have left them stranded in the Frying Pan, but because the rest didn’t really seem to have a problem, he thought it would be pointless to argue. 

(And okay, maybe he only relented when Enjolras had told him that he was fine with it and he really didn’t mind. But that’s besides the point.)

However, as he sat by the fire, trying his best to suppress the urge to swing his fisted hand at the jeering Americans, he was seriously beginning to regret his decision. 

“Say, Grantaire, whaddya think these honeys’ll fetch back at home,” Claquesous called out, flashing his ornate jar for about the hundredth time that evening.

“We hear you found yerselves a nice, gooey mummy. Congratulations,” Guelemer taunted. 

“Ya know, if ya dry him out, you can sell him for firewood.” Grantaire closed his eyes in frustration and reminded himself to take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry about them. Do you mind if I join you?” He snapped open his eyes and found himself face to face with the golden-haired Egyptologist of the second American expedition. They clutched a black book close to their chest,which they promptly shoved into their bag once they caught Grantaire looking at it. “I really don’t think I can take anymore of their stupidity,” they breathed. Grantaire stared for a moment before he realized he hadn’t answered yet. 

“Oh yeah, sure,” he scooted over and patted the spot next to him on the log he was sitting on. 

_Where Enjolras almost kissed him._

He shook his head. 

“So you just couldn’t handle ‘em, could ya…” he trailed off, realizing he hadn’t asked them for their name. 

“Jehan,” they supplied. “And yeah, no I don’t think anyone can handle those idiots. They just don’t appreciate the real treasures of Egypt. Someone really ought to tell them that gold isn’t the only priceless object to be found.” Grantaire snorted. 

“You should talk to our own Egyptologist, Enjolras; you two would get on spectacularly.” As if he could summon him simply by speaking his name, Enjolras strolled over to where he was sitting, the rest of the group huddling in closer as he plopped himself down in the sand, leaning his back against Grantaire’s legs and dropped a handful of… Grantaire turned green. What the hell were those?

“Look what I found!” Enjolras exclaimed breathlessly. “Scarab skeletons!” At the confused looks of the rest of the friends, he explained, “They’re flesh-eaters. I found them inside the mummy’s coffin. They can stay alive for years living off of the flesh of a corpse…” he trailed off, peering up at Jehan. 

“You’re that other Egyptologist. What are you doing here?” he narrowed his eyes. Jehan gave him a soft smile and dropped down on the ground next to Enjolras. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation. Believe me, I’m not spying for them or anything,” they rolled their eyes as they jerked their head in the direction of the raucous Americans, “but if you would prefer I leave, then I’ll do so without complaint.” Enjolras looked caught off guard. 

“No, no, that’s quite alright. You’re welcome to stay with us if you’d like. Actually,” he added with a smile, “it would be nice to finally be able to talk to someone who understands Egypt like I do.” Jehan beamed. Grantaire stared at the scarab skeletons and tried his best not to let his nausea do anything drastic to his body.

“Wait, are you saying someone threw these things in with our guy, and they ate him very slowly?” Enjolras turned to face him and nodded solemnly.

“Very slowly,” he emphasized. Courfeyrac whistled.

“He certainly wasn’t a very popular fellow when they planted him, was he?” he called out from where he was huddled up next to Combeferre. 

“Must’ve gotten a little too frisky with the Pharaoh’s daughter,” Bahorel chuckled as he elbowed Bossuet in the side. Enjolras cleared his throat.

“According to my readings, the man suffered the _Hom-Dai,”_ beside him, Jehan sucked in a sharp breath, “the worst of all ancient Egytian curses, one reserved for only the most evil blasphemers.” Jehan looked pale as Enjolras shook his head and continued in a quieter voice, “In all of my research I have never read of this curse actually being performed.” 

Grimacing, Grantaire looked down at the skeletons and felt a sudden pity for a random mummy he never knew. “That bad huh?” Enjolras nodded quickly. Grantaire resisted the urge to reach out a hand and run his fingers through his soft blond curls. 

“Yes, they never used it because they feared it so much. It’s written that if a victim of the _Hom-Dai_ should ever arise, they would bring with them the Ten Plagues of Egypt.” Feuilly furrowed his eyebrows.

“The Ten Plagues?” he asked skeptically. “You mean like, all Ten Plagues?”

“Like what that Moses guy did to that Pharaoh guy?” Thenardier’s voice came from beside him, seemingly having eavesdropped into their conversation. _That rat bastard._ Actually, now that he noticed it, Grantaire realized that the entire camp had fallen silent, even the Americans, listening in on what Enjolras was saying. 

Enjolras snorted. “Yes, that’s one way of putting it,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“So, let’s see,” Joly hummed thoughtfully, “what were the Ten Plagues? There were frogs.”

“Flies,” Bossuet offered.

“Locusts,” Combeferre added. 

“Hail and fire,” Courfeyrac called.

“Darkness for three days,” Feuilly muttered.

“People covered in boils and sores,” Bahorel informed.

“Water turning to blood,” Jehan murmured.

“Pestilence of livestock,” Babet yelled from where the rest of Patron-Minette were seated. 

“Lice,” Claquesous, supplied.

“And the death of the firstborn,” Grantaire finished. A hushed silence fell over the camp as everyone, save for Enjolras, exchanged nervous and spooked looks. The blond clapped his hands together and rubbed at his palms.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

________________________________________________

Enjolras decided he liked Jehan very much; working at the library alone with only Monsieur Valjean, who never really had much time to stop and talk to him, had never really allowed him to talk about his passion for Egyptology. Yes, he would often ramble about it to Courfeyrac, but it really wasn’t the same, as Courfeyrac wasn’t able to do much other than listen. A few times, Enjolras had attempted to discuss his research and knowledge excitedly with the historians and scholars that would often meet up with Monsieur Valjean, but they would simply wave him away, claiming that a _librarian_ could never know what they were talking about, something that would both make his hackles rise and deliver a swift blow to his feelings. 

However, with Jehan, he was able to talk about all his theories and research all while actually for once listening as well as someone else gave him their opinions too. In the silence of the night, after everyone else had drifted off to sleep, the two talked about their research, their work, the stories they had heard, and why they were here. 

“I know the _Book of Amun-Ra_ is out here, Jehan. All my research—it all leads here. I’m going to find that book, and then the Bembridge Scholars are _finally_ going to recognize me for the Egyptologist I am. They’ll finally see past the image of a librarian, and I’ll be actually given the proper tools to explore Egypt better.” Jehan gave him a sympathetic smile. They already held an influential position at the department of Egyptology at Brown University in Rhodes Island, so the trip wasn’t as high stakes for them, but the research opportunity had been too good for them to turn down, even if they had to travel with what they called “not a clown but the entire goddamn circus.”

“You’ll find it, Enjolras, have faith. Besides, a librarian is no less than a member of the Bembridge Scholars; as far as I’m concerned, you're twice as smart as they are, without the pretentiousness they carry.” Enjolras smiled faintly. Jehan observed him for a second. They hesitated for a moment before saying, “Would you like to see something Enjolras?” When he nodded his head, Jehan reached for his bag and dug through it. “It’s priceless, Enjolras, just wait ‘till you see it,” they whispered breathlessly. From their bag, they protruded a large, black leather book; they handed it over to Enjolras, who held it in his hands reverently. As he ran his hands over the spine and gently flipped through the pages, he felt his breath stutter. This book was familiar… he had read about it in his research, but… no. It was only a legend, wasn’t it? 

Clearly not, as the book he held in his hands very much existed. This book was…

“Jehan,” he murmured in awe, “is this the _Book of the Dead?”_ They nodded their head. Enjolras gasped softly as he ran his fingers over the spine. The _Book of the Dead_ was real! He couldn’t believe it! Not only was it real, but he was holding it right in his hands! Flipping the book open, his eyes greedily drank in the hieratic writing and hieroglyphics recorded inside, no doubt spells and enchantments the Egyptians must have believed in. Digging out his reading glasses, he muttered a few words before he felt a pair of hands gently pry the book from his fingers. He glanced up in confusion.

Jehan shook their head in warning. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Enjolras.” He furrowed his eyebrows.

“You don’t actually believe in the curses, do you?” he asked. Jehan raised their eyebrows at him. 

“I think, Enjolras,” they said as they gently slid the book back into their bag, “that there’s a lot to be said for what science can’t explain.” 

“So you believe in magic?”Jehan quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I’d say there’s a definite possibility it exists,” they stated with a small smile. Enjolras opened his mouth to argue further, but Jehan beat him to it. “I think,” they started gently, “that it’s time we both get a bit of sleep if we don’t want to appear dead to the rest of the group.” Enjolras smiled and nodded his head, watching as Jehan stood up and walked away towards their tent, taking their bag, and by extension, the book with them. 

________________________________________________

Enjolras laid on his blanket anxiously for the past hour, tossing and turning restlessly as his mind continued to flash back to the _Book of the Dead._ It was just lying there, waiting to be read by Enjolras! He couldn’t just leave it there!

Casting a furtive look around the slumbering camp, he carefully lifted himself off his blanket and to his feet, tiptoeing over to where Jehan laid, bag on the ground next to him. With much effort, he slid the book out of the bag and clutched it to his chest. At the prospect of stealing, he bit his lip and hesitated, but when he looked down at the book cradled in his hands, he made a firm decision. He made his way back across the camp towards his own blanket, where he plopped himself down and flipped open the book. In the silence, he could hear his heart pound in excitement as he gazed down at the volume.

_This is the actual Book of the Dead!_

“You know,” he startled at the sound of Grantaire’s voice, turning to see him lying with an eye cracked open, clearly not asleep as Enjolras previously thought, “that’s called stealing.”

“Well, according to you and my brother,” he shot back, “it’s called borrowing.” 

Grantaire chuckled. “I’m not really sure you wanna use me as an example, angel.” He paused as he came up to sit by him. “You sure you oughtta be playin’ around with that?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a book,” he told him, and himself, if he were to be completely honest. “No harm has ever come from reading a book.” Quelling his racing heart, he ignored the nervous look Grantaire was giving him as he adjusted his reading glasses and let his eyes glide over the hieratics and hieroglyphs written in. 

“Ahm kum Ra. Ahm kum Dei…” 

________________________________________________

Inside the labyrinth, Imhotep, after thousands of years of waiting, finally opened his eyes, his ears filling with the sounds of a distant chant pulsing the life through his veins. That voice… it could only belong to one man…

“Metjen?”

________________________________________________

Enjolras continued to chant, reading growing more and more rapid, his breathing turning frantic and ragged. He reached the crescendoed climax of the incantation—

The book was torn viciously out of his hands. He looked up, startled, into Jehan’s blazing eyes. 

“Enjolras! I told you not to!” Jehan yelled; they looked beyond furious. Enjolras frowned. 

“Come on, Jehan, magic doesn’t really exist. You know that.” They ran a frustrated hand through their hair. 

“I don’t care! I specifically told you not to read from it and yet you still did! Now, I fear you've brought a curse down upon us all!” they cried in anger. Enjolras gaped.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t—”

“I made him do it.” He whirled around to see Grantaire give Jehan a firm look. He furrowed his eyebrows. _What is he doing?_ “It’s not his fault, Jehan. I asked him to read from the book. I didn’t think anything bad would happen. And, if you just look around, you’ll see that I’m right.” Jehan narrowed their eyes at him. 

"Grantaire," they snapped, "don't—" 

They were cut off by the sound of a screech in the night. The spell of sleep over the camp was broken as everyone suddenly leapt to attention, rushing out of tents and throwing off blankets in search of the source of the noise. Enjolras turned around and felt his blood drain. 

In the sky, swooping closer and closer towards them flew a swarm of locusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't blame my boy Enjolras, I would've done the same 😔 If you have the history there... the temptation is too great to resist... 
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras learns that maybe messing with ancient Egyptian magic isn't the best idea. But really, of all people, why is this creature interested in him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'll just let you read the chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

"RUN FOR THE LABYRINTH!" Feuilly's command spurred Grantaire's muscles into action; he grabbed Enjolras' hand in his, taking off, running for cover from the locust swarm, his free hand swatting at the sky. He watched as Montparnasse's men, excluding Jehan, made a break for the temple while the rest of them hurtled furiously to take cover in the labyrinth inside. Ducking under the entrance of the labyrinth, he pulled Enjolras along, heart pounding in the same rhythm as his and his friends' running feet. They raced down the halls, too narrow to fit the entire group at the same time. 

_Left!_

He changed directions.

_Right!_

He turned and ran the opposite way. 

_Forwards!_

His feet pounded on the ground.

_Turn!_

He swivelled the other way and barrelled down the hallway. Behind him were the sounds of ragged pants that were starting to grow more and more weary. 

"Keep going, Enjolras. Just a few more minutes," he lied. 

Grantaire realized they must have gotten separated from the others at one point, because when he turned to briefly glance to his left, the only two he saw were Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

"Did you see that?" Courfeyrac yelled as they shot down the halls. "Locusts! Billions of locusts!" _Yes Courfeyrac I've seen the locusts. You'd have to be blind not to._

"That's one of the Plagues, isn't it? Swarms of locusts!" Combeferre shouted. Bingo. That's exactly what Grantaire had been thinking. It was clear that whatever it was that Enjolras had chanted out had brought down the curse of the Ten Plagues of Egypt. If they were already suffering so much under the locusts, he shuddered to think of how they'd fare under the harsher Plagues. 

Behind him, Enjolras shook his head. "This is not a Plague," he panted adamantly. "It's a generational thing; every so many years the locusts of Egypt have a population explosion and they all take flight." Enjolras was beginning to sound even more tired, maybe even close to faint. Grantaire cursed. At this rate, he might just have to end up carrying him. 

His foot squelched something beneath him. Stopping abruptly, Enjolras crashed into his back. Absentmindedly, he stuck out an arm to balance him while keeping his eyes firmly trained on the ground. 

"Okay… and what about frogs?" 

Enjolras went pale at the sight of the hundreds of green amphibians littering the ground in front of them. 

_GRUMBLE._

The ground beneath them began to shake. A crack formed, from which hundreds upon hundreds of scarab beetles began to pour out, chittering as they scurried towards the four. Screaming, they turned and bolted as fast as they could with a new vigour. From somewhere deep in the maze, the sound of a guttural scream tore through the night. 

Grantaire flew up the stairs, taking two at a time, continuously urging Enjolras to _just keep running we're almost there._ As the scurrying behind them approached ever closer, Grantaire's heart raced faster. 

Enjolras' hand, now slick from sweat, slipped from his grip. Grantaire tried to turn around, but the chitters of the bugs had him taking a sudden leap of faith onto a pedestal to the right of the staircase. Two more thuds indicated the presence of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why Enjolras' landing did not make any noise.

Breathing hard, braced up against the wall Grantaire watched as the scarab beetles scurried past them, seemingly sinking back down into the sand. 

_Thank God that's over._ He closed his eyes and let himself relax for the first time in the last half an hour, until something Courfeyrac said forced his eyes open and sent a jolt of overwhelming panic and fear through his body.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac said, voiced wrecked with rising panic, "where's Enjolras?" 

________________________________________________

_I do not believe in magic. I do not believe in magic. I do not believe in magic._

Enjolras was a believer in a great many things. Ideals, principles, history, archaeology, et cetera, et cetera.

Here was the thing, though: everything he believed in had sufficient evidence to back itself up. 

This right here? There was no evidence to prove that magic and sorcery existed, and that he had just accidentally summoned the Ten Plagues of Egypt down on themselves. No, he was sure there had to be some sort of an explanation for the locusts. And the frogs. And the scarab beetles. Therefore, he had no other choice but to not put his faith into the theory. 

_I do not believe in magic. I do not believe in magic. I do not believe in magic._

When he thought things couldn't get worse, the universe decided to take it up as a challenge. When Grantaire, Courf, and Combeferre leapt to the platform on the right, he had found himself too tired to carry himself over such a distance, and instead dove to the grotto on the left, panting as he watched the scarabs scurry past him. Trying to catch his breath he leaned backwards, when suddenly, he felt the wall behind him give way. As he fell through, he screamed, but the noise of the frenzy of the beetles drowned out his desperate cry for help. 

Now, in the pitch-dark he sat up from where he fell, brushing off the sand from his body and tried to quell the powerful panic that wracked his body.

_Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

He squinted in the dark, trying to make sense of where exactly it was that he was standing, but in the dark, disoriented and confused and profusely light headed, he wasn't able to make sense of anything. Standing up, he forced one foot in front of the other, grasping for the walls along the way to guide him; as he rounded a corner, a stream of moonlight faintly lit up the hallway. In the middle of the passage, he spotted a man with his back turned away from him. Enjolras breathed out a sigh of relief. 

"Oh thank God," he said. "You're one of the Americans, aren't you? Mr. Babet, isn't it?" He reached out and rested a hand on the man's shoulder. When he turned around, Enjolras couldn't hold back the scream that tore at his throat. 

Both of Babet's eyes were missing; in its place were hollow sockets. All thoughts of remaining calm and breathing easy flew out of his head as he backed away, shaking his head in denial. 

_Where am I? Where am I? Oh God, where’s Courf? Where’s Combeferre?_

_Where's Grantaire?_

As he continued to back away slowly, he felt his back bump into something. Spinning hot on his heel, he screamed louder than he had ever in his life. He felt tears prickle at his eyes and sent out a silent prayer to whoever was up there.

_Please don't let me die. I'm not ready to die here of all places._

Hyperventilating, he recoiled away from the sight in front of him. What he had bumped into was somehow, horrifically, the same mummy from the sarcophagus. It was undoubtedly him; the rotting corpse was the same, still decomposing, still reeking, still _juicy._ Maggots ran all over the body, the body that was supposed to be dead, supposed to be lying motionless inside its sarcophagus. The body was _not_ supposed to have fresh eyeballs when Babet was clearly missing them, the body was _not_ supposed to be inching closer to him as he back peddled until his back hit the wall and he had nowhere else to run. With his fresh, new eyeballs, the mummy squinted at him.

"Metjen?" 

________________________________________________

"Damn it! DAMN IT!" Grantaire pounded on the wall. "There must be a trap door around here somewhere. There has to be!" He continued to feel his way on the surface of the left side of the staircase, where Enjolras had jumped. He felt his heart pound against his chest and he gritted his teeth. They were running out of time; Enjolras was somewhere out there alone as the attacks kept raining down on them, and the thought of Enjolras trying to fend for himself in conditions like these made his mind race with panic. 

If he thought he was bad, however, then Courfeyrac was an unreachable level. Frantically, the man scraped and scratched and pounded on the wall, trying to find the opening through which Enjolras must have fallen. Grantaire had never seen him so hard at work before. If he had time to dwell on the thought, Grantaire would have considered it sweet. 

The sounds of screams had the three men's heads snapping to the direction of the staircase. Grantaire watched wide-eyed as Guelemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse (where was Babet?) came racing down the stairs. 

"RUN YOU SONS-A-BITCHES, RUN!" Guelemer screamed as he flew down the stairs. The returning sound of the scarabs had Grantaire grabbing Courfeyrac's left hand, Combeferre at his right, as they followed the Americans down the stairs, Courfeyrac struggling immensely. 

"No—wait—Enjolras," he screamed, loud and shrill, "ENJOLRAS!" 

"Stop, Courf!" Grantaire yelled over the commotion. "We'll find him! I swear to you, _I_ will find him!" 

________________________________________________

Enjolras watched in horror, trapped against the wall, as the mummy stalked closer, sand seemingly dancing and swirling around him. Desperately, he looked over to where Babet now laid, eye sockets devoid of any emotion that might have once manifested there. 

"Please," he begged. The plea threw him off groove; he had never begged for anything in his life before. It was a humiliating practice and he'd swore he'd never be reduced to resorting to such a thing. However, as he stood here at the cross-road between life and death, he discovered that he'd rather do a lot of the things he'd sworn off if it just meant that he'd _get the hell out of this place._ When the man didn't respond, he tried again. "Please, help me. Please… please help me." Babet opened his mouth, presumably to answer, but was unable to do much else other than gurgle, as his tongue was missing. At that sight, Enjolras feared that if he didn't bring his heart and breathing rate down to a normal level, he would end up killing himself from fear. 

In front of him, the mummy suddenly turned around and grabbed at Babet, hurling him hard onto the ground, setting a skeletal foot on his chest. He then looked at Enjolras, as if hoping to impress him. 

" _Kadeesh pharos Metjen!_ " Whatever blood he had remaining in his system drained out. Right as he felt his knees begin to give out from how violently they shook, a familiar voice called out his name. Distantly, his mind registered the feeling of someone gripping his arm, but in the present moment, his eyes weren't able to move away in terror from the sight in front of him. 

"Enjolras! Stop playing games, we need to book the hell out of here!" Grantaire, upon seeing the look in his eyes, swivelled to see what he was staring at, and he felt the grip on his arm tighten as he jumped back. "HOLY SHIT!" Stepping forward in his line of sight ever so subtly, Grantaire took him by the hand and started inching them both down the hall. The mummy stalked after them, like a hunter cornering his prey. Enjolras' heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. Suddenly, the mummy stopped to unhinge his enormous jaw. 

"Metjen!" 

The mummy shrieked, prompting Enjolras to scream and duck under Grantaire for further cover. Grantaire jumped for a moment, before opening his own mouth and screamed back:

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" The blast of a gunshot exploded through the hallway, and Enjolras felt a tug on his hand as he was pulled once more into a run.

________________________________________________

_What the actual hell was that?_ Grantaire’s heart had driven itself into overdrive from fear. That thing back in the hallway, it was—

No. He had to have been hallucinating. What he had seen back in the chamber couldn't be real, could it?

Well, judging by the way Enjolras had gone mute in fear and shock behind him, he figured out he wasn’t the only one who saw the creature. 

Feet pounding, Grantaire quickly hauled Enjolras up by the waist and tossed him through the crevice, tossing anxious glances over his shoulders as if the thing he had just blown to pieces with his gun would come after them. Climbing out himself after a few seconds, he strained his eyes against the sand billowing in the air, pushed on by the howling winds whipping through the night sky. Stumbling out, he found himself face-to-face with ten of the armed warriors they had fought the previous night. He raised his hands in the air in surrender and glanced over to see Enjolras do the same; in front of them, a few feet away, the rest of the group and Montparnasse’s gang, minus Babet, were on their knees in surrender. 

The man he had confronted yesterday during the battle—Javert, supposedly—stepped forwards, his scimitar glinting wickedly in the moonlight. 

“I told you to leave or die. You refused, and now you may have killed us all, for you have unleashed the creature that we have feared for more than four thousand years,” the man snarled. Grantaire rolled his eyes, praying his face didn’t give away any of the panic currently thrumming underneath his skin.

“Relax, I got him. I’m pretty sure a blast from my gun would’ve killed anyone.” Javert scowled at him and shook his head.

“No mortal weapon can kill this creature. He is not of this world.” 

Raising his eyes, he said in a flat voice, “Are we talkin’ about the same creature? The walkin’ corpse? Really big mouth with a side of really bad breath? I’m pretty sure I _got_ him.”

________________________________________________

Thenardier was running. 

He knew he shouldn’t have gotten involved with this group, but alas, the greed of gold was too alluring to resist. In fact, his own wife had encouraged him to go, spurred on by the promise of a great reward. 

Now, alone in the halls, the first of the Ten Plagues showering around him, he knew he should have just stayed put and looked for someone more foolish to try and con. Heart pounding, he turned the corner.

And he screamed. 

There, in front of him, was the mummy Grantaire and his little blond friend were talking about earlier, standing very much alive. Raising his gun, he shot six swift bullets, backing up against the wall as he went. 

_Why won’t he die?_ He thought frantically. His eyes widened in horror as he watched the wounds close up and heal themselves in a matter of mere seconds. The creature began to move.

Dropping his guns, he reached instead for the obscene amount of religious chains and symbols he wore around his neck, most of them nicked from others in the marketplace. The chains jangled as he picked up the Christian crucifix and held it in front of him to try and ward off the creature.

“May the good Lord protect and watch over me as a shepherd watches over his flock. And may Satan in all his forms be vanquished forever,” he mumbled quickly. Undeterred, the mummy stalked closer. 

_No? Okay, I’ve got plenty more._

He lifted the symbol of an Islamic sword and crescent moon and began to mutter an Arabic prayer of protection _._ No effect. Growing more panicked, he frantically lifted each and every chain he wore around his neck, among them a Hindu Brahma medallion, and a Buddhist Bodhisattva statue, all the while blessing himself in every language he could think of. The mummy did not relent, instead reaching a hand out towards his throat, when he suddenly stopped, eyeing Thenardier with interest as the man held out the Star of David and murmured a Hebrew blessing. Thenardier watched as the creature opened his mouth—and began to speak in Hebrew. 

_“The language of the slaves… I may have use for you, and the rewards will be great._ ” The mummy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of—

Thenardier wanted to throw up. In the creature’s hand squirmed hundreds of maggots. Just as he was about to turn away, however, the bugs parted and revealed a pile of precious jewels, much like the ones the Americans he had guided here found. His eyes widened in greed. With his other hand, the mummy revealed shards of what looked suspiciously like those jars they had found earlier. 

_“Where are the other sacred jars?”_ the creature demanded. 

Thenardier smiled wickedly. 

________________________________________________

_Holy shit._

Everyone’s eyes, even Montparnasse’s, went wide in horror as they watched two of the warriors drag Babet out of the crevice. 

Grantaire thought he was going to be sick.

Where the man’s eyes should have been, only hollow sockets remained. _What happened to his eyes?_

Claquesous and Guelemer ran to the injured man’s side, horrified and furious.

“You bastards!”

“What did ya do to him?!” 

Javert scowled. “We saved him! Saved him before the creature could finish his work! Now, leave, all of you, quickly, before he finishes you all!” 

“So you’re not going to kill us?” Courfeyrac blurted from where he was standing next to Enjolras, grasping his hand in his own. Enjolras elbowed him in the side. 

Javert shook his head grimly. “We must now hunt him down and try to find a way to kill him before he consumes the Earth.” He started to walk towards the crevice. Grantaire grumbled under his breath.

“I told ya, I already got him!” he exclaimed for what was probably the hundredth time. Javert stopped in his tracks, turning back around to look Grantaire dead in the eye.

“Know this: the creature will be coming for you. He must consummate the curse, and until he does, he will never eat, never sleep, and he will never stop.” The group watched as he jumped into the crevice, leaving them all to gape in shock at his warning.

________________________________________________

“Are you alright?” 

Enjolras could only nod numbly, still too shocked by the events that had just transpired. Dazedly, he felt a pair of strong hands haul him up by his waist and place him onto his awaiting camel. When Grantaire climbed up in front of him, he shuddered and buried his head in his back, clutching tight to something that was strong and warm and _safe._

________________________________________________

In the dead of the night, a skeletal hand burst through the air with a scream.

‘“Metjen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we've FINALLY gotten to the point where the mummy, the actual antagonist of the movie appears, And it only took twelve chapters!
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Warning for self doubt about being a librarian that is in no way true because librarians are kickass. Also, I still don't know how to write action :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_British Fort- Cairo_

“I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff!”

When they had at last reached Cairo once more, Enjolras was able to better get a grip on his senses and formulate a plan inside his head. This was his fault for reading from the book, and so it was his responsibility to fix it, and he couldn’t fix it if he were to simply go home and ignore the problem. God, why was he so _stupid?_ Jehan had explicitly told him not to read from the book, but his overly curious mind just had to ignore them and go on anyways. Honestly, he expected them to hate him forever for disobeying their words, but when they had seen the condition he was in, they simply smiled softly and told him that it’s okay to be curious.

 _Curiosity killed the cat,_ he thought bitterly. 

Vaguely, he wondered whether this was how Pandora felt after she had opened the box and released all known evils onto mankind. 

Now at home in the British Fort in Cairo, Enjolras argued fiercely with Grantaire, the only one of their group who was vehemently against the group decision to head over to the Fort with him and Courfeyrac to see what they could do about the situation rather than head home. Enjolras ran around the room, picking up whatever pieces of his clothing Grantaire was grabbing and throwing into the suitcase he was trying to pack for him, supposedly trying to pack his things for _America_ (did he actually think he would drop everything and leave with him for America? He had never been anyplace other than Britain and Egypt, for God's sake! Although, he didn't mind if Grantaire was there, acting as his guide, holding his hand, bringing him home somewhere they would stay _together…_ wait, where was this going) to leave with him _,_ and stuff them back in the closet, only to find they had disappeared back into his suitcase once again. He huffed in frustration.

“Well, yes, but having an encounter with a four thousand year old walking-talking corpse tends to convert one,” he replied, grabbing the handful of shirts Grantaire had just shoved into his bag and stuffed it in a drawer instead. 

“Forget it, we’re not staying here! Quit acting stubborn and grab your stuff so we can get out the door and be gone!” Grantaire voiced in irritation. Enjolras gave him a flat stare.

“No.”

He continued to arrange his shirts into the drawer when he noticed his pants had all now gone missing. Groaning in frustration, he turned around to see them not-so-neatly poking out of his bag. 

“We’re leaving, Enjolras,” Grantaire called out as he started reaching next for his socks and threw those in as well, ignoring the careful way he had bunched them up in pairs. 

“No we’re not,” he grunted as he hauled a large pile of trousers into the closet. “We’re the ones who woke him up, so we’re the ones who have to try and stop him.” Grantaire scoffed and raised his eyebrows at him. 

“We? What we?” he questioned. “You’re the one who read that book! Jehan told you not to play around with that thing! I told you not to play around with that thing! You were just too stubborn to listen!” Enjolras felt his cheeks heat up in shame and he tore his gaze away. He was right; this was his fault, and he had been beating himself up black and blue over it. Maybe this was the reason the Bembridge Scholars kept rejecting him. He never knew when to bow his head and keep his mouth shut; all he ever did was speak when they didn't need rebellion and involve himself in matters that ought not concern him. However, he also knew that now was not the time to mope; right now, he needed to focus his energy into a better cause, that being figuring out a way to defeat this curse and send the mummy back to the dead. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from side to side.

“Alright then… me." He swallowed and nodded. "I… I read the book. I woke him up." With another nod, he looked back up with a new sort of fire in his eyes. "And I intend to stop him." He watched as Grantaire dragged a hand down his face and let out a little frustrated scream. 

"How? You heard the man! No mortal weapon can kill this thing!" Enjolras looked at him determinedly. 

"Then we'll just have to find some immortal ones." Grantaire threw his hands up in the air.

"I give up! I give up! If you want to stay here, then fine! I'm leaving!" he yelled, his tone clear that he was _not at all_ fine with Enjolras staying. Spinning on his heel, Grantaire stormed out of the room, leaving Enjolras to scramble after him hastily. 

"According to the _Book of the Dead,_ once this creature has been reborn, his curse will spread, and as he grows in strength, so will his curse, infecting the people until the whole of the Earth is destroyed," he explained, jogging to keep up with Grantaire's long strides. 

"Yeah? So is that my problem?" the man called from up front. Enjolras stared at his back incredulously. 

"Your problem? Yes of course it's your problem! It's everyone's problem!" As he kept walking, he made a dive for the man's wrist. "Grantaire, wait, _please listen—_ "

Grantaire turned around and looked at him, eyes full of fierce, green fire. "Look, _Angel_ , I appreciate you saving my life and all, but when I signed on, I agreed to take you out there and bring you back, and I did. Now we're even, end of job, end of story, _contract terminated!_ "

The words stung like a harsh slap to the face. He recoiled and drew his hand away from Grantaire's, as if his skin was burning.

"Is that all I am to you? A contract?" he whispered, words strangely sounding hurt. Of course. Of course this was nothing more than just a job for Grantaire. All he was doing was repaying the favour Enjolras had done him back in the prison, so that he didn't have to remain in his debt any longer. He just wanted to get this done with and move on with his life. Of course Enjolras just had to… had to…

Had to catch feelings for a man who never gave him any sign that he felt the same way. And why should he? It wasn't as if he was anything special. In fact, it seemed quite the opposite; in his presence, Grantaire had been forced to fight, to run, to endure curses and magic and mummies all the while continuously having to look out for someone clearly not worthy of his time. Enjolras had no one to blame here but himself. Really, who was he? Some lowly librarian who spent his days cataloguing books and papers without ever having the chance to write his own.

He was nobody, and Grantaire saw it loud and clear. 

Something in Grantaire's eyes had changed; there was an odd sort of light in them as he peered down at him.

"You called me Grantaire," he said in a strange tone. Enjolras winced and nodded. He looked at the floor and swallowed. 

"Yes. Sorry, that was my mistake." He closed his eyes and quietly continued, "If you wish to leave, _Mr_ . _Grantaire_ , you may do so. I, however, will be staying, and nothing you say will be able to convince me otherwise." He looked up at him and finished, "Have a good day." Spinning on his heel, he walked away towards his room.

"Enjolras, wait!" Ignoring the pull of that familiar voice, he closed the doors behind him and slid the lock in place, silently cursing out his heart.

________________________________________________

_Shit._

He really shouldn't have used those words. Now it was too late to take them back, and he was forced to watch as Enjolras walked away and ignored his calls for him, closing the door on his face. Just when it had seemed they were getting closer— _he had called him Grantaire_ —he had to open his mouth and push him away. The way in which the blond had retracted his verbal trust and reverted back to addressing him in formality— _Mr. Grantaire_ —would likely haunt him. Sighing in defeat and bitter contempt, he walked briskly across the compound of the Fort. In front of him, he spotted a familiar figure walking next to a tall, hooded stranger. He narrowed his eyes as they drew closer.

"Thenardier, where did you slink off to?" he questioned. The man looked at him in supposed indignation.

"You left me! You left me to rot in the desert!" he replied. Grantaire shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh yeah… sorry 'bout that," he offered, not really sounding sorry at all. _He's not the only one you should be apologizing to._ "So who's this guy?" He jerked his head in the direction of the figure, who upon closer inspection, was wearing a mask of death. 

That creeped the _hell_ out of him. 

"This is Prince Imhotep, High Priest of Osiris," Thenardier explained. Rather reluctantly, Grantaire held his hand out to shake. The masked man recoiled away. 

_Huh._ He stared at him suspiciously.

"The Prince doesn't like being touched by other humans. A silly eastern superstition, I'm afraid." 

Eyeing him for a few more moments, he eventually tore his gaze away and muttered, "Yeah? Well we all got our little problems today, don't we?" mind flashing back to the memory of hurt eyes and a door in his face.

Thenardier smiled at him. "He has come here to help Mr. Babet. Somehow, I feel responsible." Grantaire snorted. 

"Don't give me that bullshit. You've never had any scruples before."

"Know where I can steal some?"

Knowing that there were better things that he could do rather than swing the fist he was currently curling at Thenardier, he gave the masked man one last look before muttering, "See ya around, _padre,"_ and leaving the two alone in the sweltering heat. 

________________________________________________

Was it really a surprise that given the recent turn of events, Grantaire found himself sitting up at the bar? Gathered with the rest of the group— _minus Enjolras,_ he thought bitterly—he took a large swig of his liquor as he watched the old man who had introduced himself earlier when they first showed up stagger around, regaling them with the tales of his old days in the French Air Force.

“I’m the last of the Air Force still stationed here, you know? All the other laddies died in the air and were buried in the sand!” He staggered closer to where they were gathered. “Ever since the end of the Great War, there hasn’t been a single challenge worthy of a man like me!” 

Grantaire shoved him away, amused, “I’ve heard it before, Lamarque.” The man grinned and stumbled over to where Courfeyrac was sitting. 

“I just wish I would’ve chucked it with the other laddies, gone down in a flame of glory instead of sitting around here rotting from boredom and booze!” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and passed him over to Bahorel, who shoved him over to Feuilly, each taking their turn playing pass-the-pilot. 

________________________________________________

Thenardier looked on in interest as Babet, now blind and tongueless, attempted to initiate conversation with him. 

“Mr. Babet, Prince Imhotep thanks you for your spectacles,” he gestured to the glasses that now sat perched atop where he assumed the mummy’s nose would be. Babet nodded. Thenardier continued with a sharp grin, “And for your eyes… and for your tongue.” Babet’s expression twisted in confusion.

“Wha… what?” 

“But I’m afraid,” his smile turned sharp as a razor, “more is needed. The Prince says he must consummate that which you and your friends have brought down upon yourselves.” The man’s face contorted in horror as Thenardier slowly backed out of the room, doing his best to ignore the sounds of shrill screams and chokes before a final thud indicated the job was done. When he reentered the room, he spotted Babet’s canopic jar tucked away in the hand of the now one quarter regenerated mummy. 

_One down, three to go._

________________________________________________

_CLINK._

Grantaire tapped his shot glass together with Bahorel and Bossuet before knocking it back in one throw. 

He choked and spit it back out, doubling over and coughing as he watched the rest of the bar do the same. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down at what he had spit out.

“Jesus, is that…” Bahorel started in fear. Beside them, Joly nodded, pale.

“Blood,” he whispered. They shared nervous glances with each other until something Feuilly muttered made their blood run cold. 

“And the rivers and waters of Egypt went red and were as blood.” 

_It’s written that if a victim of the Hom-Dai should ever arise, they would bring with them the Ten Plagues of Egypt._

The Ten Plagues… 

_What were the Ten Plagues?_

_Water turning to blood._

His heart stopped as the realization washed over him like ice water.

“He’s here…” he murmured, eyes wide. That man… Thenardier’s friend… it was… 

“Who? Who’s here?” Courferyac asked. 

“The guy!” he exclaimed, jumping from his seat and taking off down the compound. “The priest! THE MUMMY!” 

Lightning forked the sky, bright white and hot as he sprinted through the complex, across to where the private rooms were located. 

“Let me through, let me through!” he yelled impatiently, pushing past soldiers and civilians. His mind was racing with panic as his blood rushed under his skin. The mummy was here, loose, ready to attack. He had to get to him fast… he couldn’t risk anything happening like last time. 

“Enjolras! ENJOLRAS!” 

________________________________________________

Struggling underneath the immensely heavy load of his stack of books, Enjolras gritted his teeth and marched across the courtyard, scrunching his nose when his glasses went askew. 

_BOOM!_

A blast of thunder startled him. Yelping, he jumped and sent the top half of his stack crashing to the floor. 

“Damn it,” he muttered as he bent over to attempt to pick them back up, when he suddenly felt a hand close over his wrist and yank him into the dark behind the wall, forcing the rest of his books out of his grasp. He made to scream when a hand clamped over his, muffling his cry. Blinking up, his eyes clashed with a familiar pair of green orbs

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s just me,” Grantaire explained, breathing hard. 

Wrenching his wrist from his grip, he adjusted his specs and demanded to know, “What do you want?” Granataire sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face.

“Enjolras, can we please just not do this now? We’ve got… we’ve got problems.” Enjolras scoffed.

“Yeah? What sort of problems?” 

A fiery flaming boulder crashed next to him on his left. 

“HOLY SHIT!” 

Grantaire grabbed his wrist, pulling him into a run.

_BOOM!_

Enjolras was tugged to the side as a shower of flaming hail slammed into the fountain he had just been standing next to. Screaming, he let himself be dragged around the courtyard as they scrambled to find shelter from the storm. 

_BOOM!_

They jumped to the right as the table in front of them exploded into flames. 

_BOOM!_

Ducking, Grantaire rolled them away from where the hedges were suddenly lit ablaze, pulling him up all too quick, leaving him to stumble along after him as they raced for cover.

_BOOM!_

The sky thundered and crackled, bright orange and unrelenting in it’s fierce hail and firestorm. Enjolras felt suffocated under the sweltering heat and smoke that the storm had brought along. His eyes darted around frantically to observe his surroundings. The entire area blazed dangerous hues of red, orange, and yellow _._

Fire danced around the grounds as they weaved their way through the screaming crowd, ducking and jumping every which way, desperately trying to avoid the pelting hail. It was utter pandemonium everywhere. Enjolras’ mind was spinning. The sky was raining hail and fire, which must mean this was… 

“It’s another one of the Ten Plagues!” he blurted out. In front of him, Grantaire nodded grimly.

“He’s here! I saw him! That thing is here!” he yelled above the chaos of the crowd. Enjolras’ eyes went wide.

“The creature? Are you sure?” Grantaire turned to give him a brief look of incredulity. 

“Yeah I’m pretty sure!” he exclaimed as he gestured to the ongoing storm around them. 

Or, well, at least it was ongoing then. 

Quicker than it started, the storm came to a sudden halt, the last of the hail and fire dissipating, leaving the sky strangely barren, their surroundings abruptly silent enough that Enjolras could hear the loud palpitations of his heart. He felt a hand squeeze his, prompting his eyes to drift down to where Grantaire still hadn’t let go of his hand. Looking back up, his breath stuttered at the crooked smile the man gave him. Against his will, he felt his heart quicken and _long._

“It’s okay, it’s over,” Grantaire whispered as he drew him closer. At first, he wanted to stay mad, to resist, to push him away, half for Grantaire's sake. Why again would Grantaire ever want to be with him? Grantaire was charming and brave and strong, and he was just… him. Boring, nerdy, and stubborn. But when he looked up into those green eyes again, Enjolras thought he saw maybe even the slightest hint of tender care that wasn't typically shared between two individuals unless they were closer in… that regard. Was he overthinking this? Maybe Grantaire _did_ like him. The real question, however, was if he would allow himself to fall further for this man, knowing full well there was a risk he would never reciprocate? 

"I'm sorry," Grantaire murmured as he ran a thumb across his left cheekbone. "You're not just a contract. You're so much more than that. You were always more than that. I didn't mean what I said." 

_You're not just a contract. You’re so much more than that._ There it was. He knew that it wasn't much of a declaration of feelings, hell, it could simply mean Grantaire enjoyed being his _friend,_ but something about his tender touch and the way he had said those words had raised hope in Enjolras' heart.As he stood in his arms, Enjolras found himself _wanting,_ a feeling not so familiar, one that he decided he’d let himself be guided through, and so he thought that even if this ultimately resulted in his heart being broken, he wouldn't be completely dissatisfied if he at least had these memories, and so he went into the taller man’s embrace willingly, closing his eyes for a few second of bliss—

“HELP!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our adventurers learn exactly why the mummy seems so... interested in Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Racing up the stairs, Enjolras crashed into a servant. He reached his hands out to steady her, asking “Are you alright?” The servant, who he discovered was the one screaming, simply continued to scream and pushed him away, fleeing down the stairs. 

“Enjolras!” Grantaire’s voice jerked him back to reality, and he sprinted with him into the room the servant had fled from and— _oh my God._

His pulse quickened in fear as he looked down with wide eyes upon Babet’s—or what used to be Babet’s— body. Shrivelled and dried up to half its size, Enjolras noticed that the body had been deprived of all its internal organs and fluids. 

He was going to be sick. 

A loud guttural moan drew his attention to— _oh my God. This is worse than Babet._

The mummy stood in the far corner of the room, moaning in pain as it’s flesh rippled. _It’s regenerating,_ Enjolras realized with a shiver. Right in front of his eyes, the mummy’s previously skeletal body suddenly grew defined muscles and tendons. Grantaire drew his gun. 

“We are in serious trouble.” 

The mummy’s head snapped up to look at the two, eyes instantly latching onto Enjolras. He began moving towards him. Terrified and in no new knowledge than from last time on _what the hell to do,_ he started backing away. Grantaire tucked him away behind him.

“Back off creep!” Grantaire raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

“Why!” _BOOM!_ “Won’t!” _BOOM!_ “You!” _BOOM!_ “Just!” _BOOM!_ “Die!” _BOOM!_

The bullets tore at the mummy’s skin, but did nothing to deter him. Over and over, his flesh continued to regenerate with every bullet Grantaire shot at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras spotted his brother and everyone else barge into the room, stopping dead in their tracks at the sight in front of them. 

Eventually growing tired of wasting his bullets, Grantaire suddenly leapt forwards and delivered a swift right hook—that went straight through the mummy's head, muscle degenerating around his fist.

Shocked, Grantaire stared for a moment before stumbling back and pulling his fist free of where it had been previously caught. Enjolras watched in horror as the degenerated skin quickly closed back up as if nothing had gone wrong. The mummy turned to Grantaire in fury, grabbing him by the shirt and sending him crashing into the others, knocking them all down as if they were bowling pins. 

Enjolras cried out, "Grantaire!" The creature snapped his head back to look at him in interest. As he stalked closer towards him, like a predator hunting his prey, Enjolras backed away, terrified, until he felt his back hit the wall. 

_No no no no no. Not this again. Please._

Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned his head away as if he could disappear from the entire situation simply by closing his eyes and pretending he wasn't here. A shiver ran down his spine when he felt a hand that definitely was _not_ Grantaire's tilt his chin up and to the side, forcing his eyes to open and look. The mummy began to speak in the language of the Pharaohs, which Enjolras' quick brain scrambled to translate. 

_"You saved me from the undead. For this, I shall make you immortal."_

Enjolras stood petrified in place as, heart racing a mile a minute and knees threatening to give out at any moment from its excessive wobbling as the creature leaned in to kiss him. His breathing elevated as he waited for the press of dry lips upon his—

He nearly fainted from fear when the mummy suddenly let out a shrill shriek and jumped back, body decaying into swirling sand and dust that flew out the window and far from him. In his hazy peripheral, Enjolras spotted a white cat-- his cat, specifically--walking along the piano bench. 

_A cat,_ his mind registered fuzzily, _of course._

Having reached his fear limit, Enjolras felt his knees crumple as he slid down the wall and drew his legs close to him, breathing and pulse erratic. He thought he would hyperventilate forever when he felt a steady hand on his shoulder. Combeferre's concerned eyes looked into his. 

"I need you to breathe steady, Enjolras. Look at me, follow my rhythm." Combeferre grabbed one of his hands and brought it towards his chest, so that he could ground himself by feeling for Combeferre's steady breathing. After a few tense moments, his breathing eventually evened out and he collapsed against the Professor. Courfeyrac gently crouched beside him and wrapped his familiar arms around his frail body, murmuring comforting words and pressing a light kiss to his forehead. 

Beside them, Claquesous stood next to Babet's shrivelled body. 

"The curse… the curse…" 

________________________________________________

"There's only one person I know who can possibly give us some answer." Enjolras had been insistent, and Grantaire had tried to convince him otherwise, he really tried, but he found out that once Enjolras had made up his mind about something, nothing could ever dissuade him from achieving his goal. So now, they had left the safety of the British Fort, something he hadn't been very keen on letting Enjolras do after he witnessed that _creep_ try to kiss him back in the room, and were walking through the Cairo Museum of Antiquities where Enjolras worked. He led Grantaire and the rest through the Ramesseum, going on about how his boss, the curator Monsieur Valjean would have the answers to all their problems.

Grantaire kept a firm hand over the blond's in order to ensure he wouldn't collapse like he did back at the Fort right after the mummy disappeared. As they turned the corner, they ran into an old man and—

It was Javert! Grantaire and the rest of the group drew their guns. 

"You!" Enjolras exclaimed. The old man—this must have been the curator Enjolras was talking about, Monsieur Valjean—next to Javert raised his eyebrows. 

"Enjolras," he nodded at the blond, "Courfeyrac," he nodded at Courfeyrac, and then finally afforded the rest of them a polite dip of his head, "gentlemen." Enjolras rounded on Javert and pointed an accusatory finger. 

"What is he doing here?" he demanded. Monsieur Valjean sighed. 

"Well do you truly wish to know? Or would you just prefer to shoot us?" 

For a tense moment, nothing happened; everyone kept their guns trained on Javert's form. A light squeeze on his hand, however, had him lowering his gun back into his holster. 

"I just saw my fist vanish into some guy's head." He turned to look down at Enjolras, who gave him a small, grateful smile. "I'm willin' to go on some faith here." The Curator pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at him with tired eyes. 

"You will not believe it." 

_I'm not gonna believe it? Buddy I've faced locusts, frogs, and scarab beetles. I've ducked for cover from raining hail and fire. I've witnessed my liquor turn to blood and watched my almost-boyfriend nearly get kissed by a four thousand year old mummy and you're telling me_ I'm _not gonna believe it?_

Grantaire's eye twitched. "Try me." 

________________________________________________

Now gathered around the display of " _the_ _tomb of Seti I, isn't it wonderful, Grantaire_ — _"_ they listened to what the Curator had to say as he sat rubbing at his temples tiredly on Seti's throne. 

"We are part of an ancient secret society, the cult of the Medjai," he explained, "and we have a sacred mission, one that has been passed down through thirty-nine generations. For over four thousand years we have guarded the City of the Dead. We are sworn in our manhood to do any and all in our power to stop the High Priest Imhotep from being reborn into this world." As he finished, Javert scowled at them. 

"And now, because of you, we have failed." Grantaire clenched his jaw and tamped down the urge to reach for his gun. At his words Enjolras scoffed. 

"And you think this justifies killing innocent people?" he asked, appalled. Valjean looked at him apologetically. 

"I've tried to look for more peaceful solutions, Enjolras, but…" 

"But," Javert growled, "the law of the Medjai must be upheld, one way or another. Stopping this creature is the most important thing." Rolling his eyes, Grantaire looked at the two flatly. 

"Can we please cut to the chase? He's afraid of cats, what's that all about?" he asked, mind flashing back to the way he had disappeared in a storm of sand and dust when that cat had appeared in the room. Valjean nodded. 

"According to the ancients, cats are the guardians at the gates of the underworld. Imhotep will fear them until he is fully regenerated, then he will fear nothing." Grantaire had a sudden vision of confronting the creature—Imhotep—with an army of cats by his side. Beside him, Guelemer turned to look at him, eyes frantic. 

"Right! And ya know how he gets fully regenerated? By killing everybody who opened that chest and sucking us dry!" 

"Not all of us." Everyone turned their heads to where Jehan sat perched upon a display tomb, swinging their legs cocking their head at the rest of Patron-Minette. 

"What? What do you mean?" Claquesous demanded. Jehan clicked their tongue. 

"Not all of us. I clearly remember reading the inscription engraved on the tomb. It didn't say that those who opened the chest would die, it read _'Death will come on swift wings to whoever looks upon the opening of this chest.' "_

"That means only those who looked when the chest was opened are in danger," Enjolras said suddenly, realization dawning in his voice. Jehan nodded. Enjolras looked at him. "You didn't look, did you?" Jehan gave him a wry grin. 

"I told you, Enjolras, there's a definite possibility magic exists. I wasn't willing to risk it." 

Grantaire looked over to Guelemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse and quirked an eyebrow. "I take it you greedy pigs didn't look away as soon as you caught the first hint of gold?" At their silence, Grantaire sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Monsieur Valjean cleared his throat. "Yes, well, the creature must first try and regenerate. Then, he will attempt to resurrect the one he has loved for more than four thousand years." 

"Metjen." 

Grantaire whipped his head so hard he thought he may have given himself whiplash at Enjolras' words. Out of his peripheral, he could see the rest of the group do much the same. 

"How do you know that name?" Javert asked, thunderstruck. 

"Back in the necropolis, when I saw him alive and walking, he called me Metjen. Then in Mr. Babet's chamber he tried to… to kiss me." Grantaire's eyes darkened and he subconsciously tightened his grip on the blond's hand. 

Valjean nodded at Enjolras grimly. "It is because it was you who read from the Book. You must remind him of his old lover; he has chosen you to be the body needed to regenerate Metjen." 

_The hell? Chosen Enjolras? As his dead lover? Over my body!_ He draped a protective arm around Enjolras' waist. 

Courfeyrac shook his head frantically. "This is not good. This is not good at all." In front of them, Javert peered out the window, deep in thought. 

"Tonight is the full moon—the moon of Osiris." In a grave voice he added, "It begins tonight." 

They followed his eyes over to where they could see the moon close over the sun in a total solar eclipse. No longer did the rays of the sun shine brightly down on Earth. 

Feuilly shivered. "And he stretched forth His hands towards the heavens, and there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt…" 

________________________________________________

Grantaire glanced out the window uneasily; it was currently midday, but with the eclipse still in place, the sky was black as night. In front of where he was sitting, huddled with the rest, Enjolras paced the floor of the British Fort anxiously, running a hand through his curls, muttering under his breath.

“We need to stop him from regenerating.” He stopped abruptly and turned to look at Patron-Minette, the two of them seated next to each other. Grantaire squinted. Something wasn’t right. “So you all looked when the chest was opened?” When they nodded, Grantaire turned to look out the window grimly. 

“What about my best bud, Thenardier?” 

Claquesous shook his head. “Naw, the sly bastard scrammed outta there.” 

Enjolras nodded. “Right, so it was just you, Montparnasse, and…” his eyes grew wide. “Where’s Guelemer?” 

_Shit._

He cursed under his breath; he knew something wasn’t right. There should have been three members of Patron-Minette left. All he could spot however, were the two currently in front of him. 

Montparnasse shrugged his shoulders. “He went out to get some air.” 

Bossuet looked at him incredulously. “He went out to get some air?” he parroted. “In times like this?!” 

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay, okay. We need to find him and bring him back to the safety of the fort before the creature can get to him.” They all stood, preparing their weapons. At the British Fort, they had decided it would be best if they all carried at least a pistol. Even Jehan wielded his own revolver. Grantaire pursed his lips and surveyed the situation. 

“Alright,” he murmured, mentally calculating their numbers in his head. “We need to split up if we want to cover more land in better chances of finding Guelemer, but we need to stay in packs in case something goes wrong. You four,” he pointed to Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet, “you go together. You three,” he gestured to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan, “you’re coming with me.” 

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows. “You forgot about me.” Grantaire turned to look at him and shook his head. 

“No I didn’t; you’re not coming. You’re staying here, Enjolras,” he said with a firm voice. Enjolras’ face contorted in indignant anger. 

“Excuse me? Who put you in charge?” he spat. “You can’t just leave me behind like some old suitcase!” He shook his head defiantly. “I’m the one responsible for this mess, and I intend to be the one to clean it up. Now move.” He tried to walk past Grantaire, who stepped to the side and blocked his way. “Grantaire,” he voiced in irritation, “move.” He tried once more to push past him, but Grantaire would not relent. “Grantaire!” 

Grantaire looked down at Enjolras, wearied and totally put-upon, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. _Too stubborn for his own good; he just won’t listen, will he? Well then I'll make him._ Too quick for Enjolras to realize what he was doing, he bent down and hauled Enjolras up, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Enjolras shrieked and struggled against his grip immensely, banging his fists against his solid back. “Put me down! Put me down! Grantaire stop! Let go!” Ignoring the twisting, thrashing body in his arms, he strode over to Enjolras’ bedroom. 

_You want me to put you down? Fine._

He dropped a disoriented Enjolras onto the bed, turning quick on his heel before he could stumble out of the bed and follow him. Reaching into his pocket, he looped a lock through the handles of the door and locked the door from the outside with a key. Enjolras pounded furiously on the door.

“LET ME OUT! YOU BASTARDS! I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU ALL! LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW!” Grabbing Claquesous by the shirt, Grantaire dragged him close enough so he could see the fear in his eyes. 

“Keep an eye on him.” He thrust the key into the man’s hands. “If you leave his door, I’ll rip your spleen out.” With a nervous swallow, Claquesous nodded, retreating closer to Montparnasse and the door. Grantaire turned to the rest of the group. “Alright, let’s do this.”

________________________________________________

Outside in the bazaar, Guelemer stumbled through the dark alleys of the marketplace. He couldn’t stay here! It wasn’t safe! He needed to get out of this place as soon as possible!

Clutching his precious jeweled jar tightly in his hands, he turned to look at himself in the mirror of a street vendor.

The creature stared at him in interest behind him. Screaming, Guelemer turned around and tried to run, only to have his arm grabbed and locked in an iron grip.

“No… no… please,” he begged. The mummy grinned down at him and lifted him in the air, unhinging his jaw.

________________________________________________

The sounds of scattered papers and thrown books and pens drifted from Enjolras’ private office. Grantaire raced up and threw the door open, watching furiously as Thenardier pocketed a silver watch that undoubtedly belonged to Enjolras, before spinning on his heel to face the four men standing at the door. He tutted.

“Well well well. Lemme guess, spring cleaning? Except,” he grabbed a chair in his hands as Thenardier looked to run past him, “I don’t recall Angel telling me anything about hiring someone to clean out his stuff.” He chucked the chair hard at Thenardier, sending the man tripping and crashing into the wall. Courfeyrac shoved past him and grabbed Thenardier by the shirt. 

“Who gave you permission to go through my brother’s stuff?” Reaching a hand into Thenardier’s pocket, he took the watch back into his hands. “I’ll take that, thank you very much.” He shoved him back, only for Grantaire to grab him this time, lifting him on the wall, dangling him in the air. He narrowed his eyes at him.

“Where’s your new friend, Thenardier?” The man gave him a weak smile and tried for a laugh. 

“Friend?” he asked, pretending not to know exactly what Grantaire was talking about. “What friend? You’re the only friend I have.” Digging through his pocket, Grantaire’s free hand closed over a familiar shape; he slipped his knife underneath the trembling man’s neck. 

“Really? Then you’ve got no excuse for living. What the hell are you doin’, Thenardier, bein’ buddies with this creep? What’s in it for you?” 

Thenardier grinned. “It’s better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path, Grantaire.” His eyes glittered maliciously. “As long as I serve him, I am immune.” 

Combeferre scoffed. “Immune? From what?” 

Thenardier turned his eyes to look at him, smirking. “You shall see.” Grantaire squeezed tighter on his throat, drawing Thenardier’s attention back to him. 

“What are you looking for? Lie and I’ll slit your throat,” he warned. When he remained silent, Grantaire pressed the knife further into his skin, drawing a choked cry from the man. 

“The book! The black book they found at Hamunaptra!” he wheezed. “Imhotep wants it back. Said to me it would be worth its weight in diamonds!” Jehan narrowed their eyes and stepped up next to Grantaire, tilting Thenardier’s face to look at his. 

“What does he want the book for?” they asked suspiciously. Thenardier shrugged nonchalantly. 

“Something about bringing his dead boyfriend back to life. For that, he needs the book,” he turned ever so gently to face Courfeyrac, “and your brother.” Courfeyrac looked positively affronted. Thenardier’s words worried Grantaire; there was no way he was letting this _creep_ get his hands on Enjolras. No way in hell. 

In the moment they all took to exchange anxious looks, Thenardier took up his chance; kneeing Grantaire in the—well you know where—and ripping himself out of Grantaire’s grasp as he doubled over in pain. Jehan made a dive for him, but he slipped through his fingers and leapt out the window. 

“Goddamnit,” he muttered hazily, “freaking rat.” Combeferre helped him to his feet. “We need to—”

A shrill scream cut through the air. 

Scrambling towards the window, the four of them looked down in horror as the crowd below parted to reveal the shrivelled body of what must have been Guelemer. 

_Oh shit._

Grantaire watched in fear as a decayed hand wrenched the jewelled jar out of the dead man’s hands. With a start, Grantaire realized that the hand wasn’t as decayed as before. 

_He’s regenerating quicker._

Turning, the mummy caught his eyes and smiled deviously. Then, he began to unhinge his enormous jaw, and he continued to open and open and open—

A swarm of flies came buzzing out, racing straight for their window. 

“THE WINDOWS THE WINDOWS CLOSE THE WINDOWS!” Combeferre yelled. Grantaire grappled with the window, slamming it shut. Across the room, Jehan did the same with the other. They caught the sound of flies pelting against the solid surface of glass. Down below, the sound of screaming meant the flies must have spread out through the air, attacking the innocent shoppers. He winced. 

“Damn it!” he exclaimed. “That’s two down and only two to go!” He grasped at his wild curls in frustration. Courfeyrac slid down the wall and wrapped his arms around him, eyes glazed in shock. 

“And then he’ll be coming after Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whispered in fear. 

________________________________________________

Thenardier smiled cunningly. He should have known their very own Egyptologist, the one who came with the Americans, would have hid the book in their room. Really, these men were much too easy to break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, life is getting crazy busy, so I might not have the next chapter up until next next week. Sorry!
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> Notes:


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They were surrounded on all sides with no more bullets or dynamite, and Enjolras knew the crowd was far too thick to fight through with a knife. So when the sea of people parted to let Imhotep through, he already made up his mind knowing full well what was about to occur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> TW: Non-con kiss, skip from "why is my mouth so dry" and start again at the italicized "CRASH!" if this is an issue for you.
> 
> Sorry for not updating last week, I was practically drowning in work and on top of that, I was getting a little discouraged from writing this... I'm struggling with the action scenes, it's not my forte, so writing out those parts have become somewhat of a tricky task.
> 
> So yeah, I'm not completely happy with the way the writing in this chapter turned out :/
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

“I’m heading downstairs for a drink.” Claquesous jumped out of his chair. 

“Please, I’ll come with you,” he said anxiously, looking for an excuse to get out of here. Montparnasse waved his hand dismissively. 

“No, Claquesous. Stay here. Someone needs to keep an eye on around here. I’ll fetch you something if you’d like.” Knowing he wasn’t going to win this argument (when did he ever, really?) he swallowed his fear and nodded nervously. Cigarette in his mouth, he pulled out his canopic jar and ran his hands over it. This was going to fetch him a handsome fortune; the thought of it almost dispelled his fear. 

A sudden breeze fluttering in from the window made him shiver. Setting the jar down, he walked over to close it, getting a faceful of sand. 

_Odd._

What was odder, however, was the way the sand seemingly lifted him into the air. Gasping, he felt the life suddenly be sucked out of his body. Choking, he twisted and thrashed, trying to escape his unseen captor’s hold.

Eventually all that was left was a shrivelled up body. 

________________________________________________

Imhotep flexed his fingers and glanced down at his limbs. Now almost completely regenerated, he certainly looked the part human. He felt for his face, smiling when his hands brushed against solid, unblemished flesh. Bending, he picked up the sacred jar he’d need to revive his beloved. 

In front of him, the door was locked when he gave a twist. 

He smiled. No problem, there were always other ways. 

________________________________________________

“SHIT!” 

Claquesous’ shrivelled, dead body laid on the floor, jar stolen. Grantaire jumped to twist on the knob—but the door was still locked! 

“Jehan check his pockets!” They searched through the tattered clothes of the dead man frantically for the key Grantaire had handed to him earlier, coming away with nothing, shaking their head.

“Nothing!” Grantaire cursed and banged once on the door. Crouching low on the ground, he peeped through the key hole. 

What he saw in front of him made his insides squirm.

________________________________________________

Now in the room, he swirled back from the mound of dust he had decayed into, back into his solid form. Making his way over to the figure fast asleep on the bed, he sat down gently, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. He smiled as his eyes ran over the fair features of his old love; those sharp features, that golden hair, those rosy cheeks and lips. How beautiful he still was! How peaceful he looked when in sleep! Leaning forward, he took a deep inhale of his lover’s scent. 

“Metjen…” he spoke his name reverently, as it ought to be spoken. He leaned in further—

There was an insistent banging on the door. Smiling, he ignored it. Nothing else mattered right now, except who he had before him. Leaning forwards, he pressed his lips gently onto those of his beloved’s, ignoring the feeling of decaying skin and sand crumbling around him.

________________________________________________

_Why is my mouth so dry?_ His throat was absolutely parched. Groaning, Enjolras lazily stretched his fingers and blinked his eyes open. Above him, something moved and engulfed him with oppressive heat. Instinctively, he put up a hand and felt a solid chest beneath his fingers.His blurry vision began to clear, revealing an image of a man with a rotted mouth hovering over him.

_Wait._

Who the hell was with him in the room? Certainly not Grantaire, he could tell his presence instinctively. And if Grantaire wasn’t in the room, it certainly couldn’t be anyone else; he was sure he must have taken the key with which he locked Enjolras in the room with. So who was it? And why was he so close? And what was that moving against his lips? It felt rather foreign, a pair of lips over his own, a dry, sandy kiss that stole his breath, but not exactly in any of the positive ways Courf had told him of before. 

Hold on.

A pair of… a pair of lips on his own?

Who the hell was in the room with him, and who the hell thought it was okay to be kissing him like this without his consent?

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, at last reaching true clarity.

In front of him, he could discern the mummy’s close features, as he… as he…

_As he kissed him?_

The chest beneath his fingers, the lips on his own, those belonged to… 

Enjolras screamed into the man’s—the mummy’s— _Imhotep’s_ —mouth and pushed him away off the bed, curling in on himself.

“HELP!” he continued to scream, draping his arms over himself and gagging. 

_CRASH!_

The door came crashing to the ground with a loud bang. Enjolras looked to his left in terror to see Grantaire standing at the door, eyes blazing with fury. 

“HEY YOU! GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BOYFRIEND, PAL!” 

The mummy roared and dived for Grantaire, mouth opening wide—

“Look what I’ve got for you, buddy!” Grantaire held up Enjolras' hissing (and poor—Enjolras should really take a day off to cuddle with his poor kitty once this was all over) cat as Imhotep screamed and burst into a swirl of sand and dust, carried out the window by the wind. Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself against the wall as he waited for the storm to come to a stop. A few heartbeats of silence later, he felt a strong pair of arms draw him close to a warm chest.

“Are you alright?” Hiding his face in Grantaire’s chest, he took a few moments before decidedly nodding his head. He pulled away and wiped his mouth in disgust. Vaguely, he wondered why everyone else was waiting outside the door, but in his hazy state of mind, he found he didn’t really care. As long as Grantaire was there with him, holding him, _ready to catch him_ —

“Please don’t leave me like that again,” he whispered. As soon as the words left his mouth he felt his cheeks burn and wished he hadn’t said anything at all. Grantaire lifted a large hand to cup his cheek. 

“Never.” Grantaire drew him back into his embrace, and he closed his eyes and let himself be held when a thought suddenly struck him. 

“You called me your boyfriend,” he murmured into Grantaire’s warmth. Above him, Grantaire went rigid. 

“Oh… um… well… that’s just a figure of speech, right?” Enjolras hummed and fiddled with Grantaire’s shirt. 

“I don’t think so. I think you were jealous,” he remarked softly, glancing up at Grantaire. He could feel the deep rumble of Grantaire’s chuckle when he put a delicate hand on his chest.

“Jealous? Have you seen his face?” he asked, laughing. Enjolras thought for a moment. 

“Well, if you weren’t, you wouldn’t have said that. You would have called me something else. Something less," he hesitated, “less romantic.” Grantaire snorted. 

“What would you rather have me call you? Apollo? Golden as a god.” Enjolras shook his head.

“We’re in Egypt. I have no use for the gods of Greece.” 

“Well what do you want? Should I stick with Angel _?”_ Grantaire smiled wryly and carded a hand through his curls. “You seem to enjoy that one.” Enjolras felt his cheeks heat up once more as he muttered something about _I didn’t really care when you called me that._ Grantaire chuckled once more before tugging on his hands to pull him up. “We need to leave, _Angel._ Courfeyrac says he thinks he has a good idea of where we—you particularly—can find some better information on this whole enchilada.

As Grantaire led him out of the room with a firm, reassuring grip on his hand, Enjolras found himself agreeing.

He did enjoy being called Angel _._

________________________________________________

Jehan turned pale. 

“What’s with you?” They looked up at Bahorel in panic. The rest of the group wore concerned expressions as they grappled through their bag, hand desperately searching for the familiar feel of hard leather that _wasn’t there._ Their breathing shortened.

“The _Book of the Dead,”_ they whispered in fear, “it’s not here. Someone… someone’s taken it.” 

All at once, it seemed as if the oxygen supply to the room cut off. They all realized who that someone was. 

_Thenardier, that rat bastard._

They were running out of time.

________________________________________________

It turns out, Courfeyrac is a genius. 

“Remember that inscription you were telling me about last month?” he asked Enjolras as they walked into the museum once again.

Enjolras racked his head, trying to remember. “Yeah, I think so. Why?” 

“Well wasn’t there something about bringing people back from the dead? And didn’t you say it supposedly came from the _Book of the Dead?_ ” Enjolras turned to face him, eye widening as the realization dawned on him.

“Yes… yes I did say that… oh my God! Courf that’s it! I—”

“Wait, so that’s what brought the mummy dude back to life?” Bossuet interrupted. Jehan nodded their head.

“Guys listen—”

“And that’s what he’s going to try and use to bring his love back too.” 

“Wait, everyone—”

“And for some reason he wants Enjolras to do it,” Grantaire muttered darkly.

“Please listen to me—”

Javert stared ahead grimly. “Yes, and if he succeeds, the two of them will bring about the apocalypse.” 

“Maybe,” Combeferre interrupted as he glanced towards Enjolras, who was looking distressed, “we should take a moment and listen to what Enjolras has to say.” They paused and turned to look at him. 

Taking a deep breath, he explained, “When I had first seen the inscription Courfeyrac mentioned, I dismissed it because I believed it was nonsense. However, given our recent turn of events, I’m inclined to believe that if the black _Book of the Dead_ can bring people back from the dead, then perhaps—” 

“The golden _Book of Amun-Ra_ can return them to the underworld,” Grantaire finished. Enjolras beamed. 

“Exactly!” He led them to a display case of various ancient Egyptian tablets. “Now we just have to find out where the golden book is hidden. He turned to peer at the tablets, fishing for his glasses—

_“IMHOTEP! IMHOTEP!”_

_What the hell?_

Cautiously, he approached the window, and instantly had the breath knocked out of him. Down below, a crowd carrying torches and various assorted weapons all marched towards the museum, seemingly caught under the spell of the man leading them, the mummy himself. Upon closer inspection, Enjolras noticed that the people were covered in—

“Sores and boils,” Feuilly whispered. 

He was going to be sick. 

“They have become his slaves,” Javert remarked grimly. “It has begun. The beginning of the end.” 

Enjolras shook his head. _No, no it hasn’t begun,_ he thought, _not when I’m so close to figuring it all out._ Spinning on his heel, he made haste towards the tablets and muttered, “Not quite yet it hasn’t.” He swung the display case open and traced his finger down the hieratics, mind racing to keep up with the symbols. “According to Bembridge Scholars, the golden _Book of Amun-Ra_ is located inside the statue of Anubis,” he called out as his eyes danced over the engravings on the tablet. Behind him, Montparnasse raised his eyebrows.

“Fine information, except, there’s a slight problem with that; we found the black book in there.” 

“Exactly,” Enjolras said absentmindedly as his mind and heart both continued to race under pressure. _Come on, come on. Where is it?_ Courfeyrac leaned against the case, eyes tracing over the tablet. He may not have Enjolras’ level of knowledge, but living with an Egyptologist as obsessed as Enjolras meant that you invariably ended up picking up a few skills, and for Courf, he had ended up becoming proficient enough in reading and identifying hieratics and hieroglyphics. 

“It seems the old boys at Bembridge were mistaken,” his brother mused. 

“Yes, thank you. It seems they mixed up where the books were actually buried,” he explained. “So, if the _black book_ was buried in the statue of Anubis, then the _gold book_ must be inside—”

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_“IMHOTEP!”_

_“IMHOTEP!”_

_BANG!_

With a final bang, the doors of the museum came crashing open, the crowd below them pouring in. Enjolras’ instincts told him to turn to look, but his determination to figure this mystery out was greater. 

“Come on, Enjolras, faster!” Courfeyrac urged him. 

Mind frantic, heart racing, and breathing erratic, he replied in a singsong voice without much attention, “Patience is a virtue.” Below them, the crowd grew more rowdy as they streamed into the building, their pounding footsteps nearing the stairs. Behind him, Grantaire shook his head. 

“Not right now it isn’t!” he yelled.

Next to Enjolras, Combeferre dropped into a crouch, tracing a finger over the engravings. Enjolras looked at him wildly. 

"What are you doing?" he asked frantically. Combeferre didn't look away from the tablet. 

"Helping," he simply answered with determination. Courfeyrac sputtered. 

"Don't tell me you can read hieroglyphics and hieratic, too," he said in disbelief.

One can never learn too many skills," Combeferre replied, eyes racing over the tablet. "When Enjolras told me of his passion for Egyptology, I decided to do a bit of learning myself."

"How do you continue to get hotter and hotter? I love myself a smart man who can—"

"Kindly flirt later!" Enjolras exclaimed. Come on, come on, where was it? 

And so the three hunched over the tablet, the power of three united as one, searching for that one answer that would solve everything as the world raged on in chaos. 

Beside him, Feuilly grabbed onto Bahorel’s sleeve. 

“Let’s go get the car started! You can help fend them off!” The sound of running footsteps jolted Enjolras’ heart further, but he would not break his concentration. He had to figure this out; he was so close.

_Come on. Come on. Where are you?_

_“IMHOTEP!”_

_“IMHOTEP!”_

_Hurry up Enjolras!_

“I’ve got it! he cried as his eyes finally traced over the right symbols. “The golden _Book of Amun-Ra_ is at Hamunaptra inside the statue of Horus!” He raised his fist in the air in triumph. “Take that, Bembridge Scholars!”

His victory was short lived as a loud _bang_ below followed by a crowd of shrill screams split the air inside of the museum, signalling the arrival of Imhotep' bloodthirsty army inside, compromising their situation.

Courfeyrac was the first to react.

"SHIT!" 

He felt a familiar calloused hand tug at his wrist, prompting him to look up into Grantaire's wild eyes. 

"Okay time to go time to go time to go!" With another tug, he was stumbling as Grantaire pulled him along. 

"Where do we go? We're trapped!" he cried, nodding down towards the crowd. Montparnasse sped past him in a blur. 

"The south west exit!"

"That thing is locked!" he exclaimed impatiently. They couldn't use it, it had a deadbolt, and yet Grantaire and the rest were changing direction to head towards it, flying down the stairs. 

_"IMHOTEP!"_

The wind knocked out of his breath as Courfeyrac crashed into him, screaming, making him scream as he felt a cold hand claw at his shirt, one he could instinctively tell wasn't any of theirs'. He went rolling on the floor, wrestling with the zombified man, throwing a well aimed punch to the side of the zombie's head, snarling. The zombie went flying off, smacking against the opposite wall. Grantaire hauled him off the floor, dragging him away once more. 

"I'm never doubting your fighting capability again!" he called from up front as he pulled him into the room where Enjolras knew the abandoned exit was, deadbolted just as he said. Behind them, the screams of the horde hrew more frenzied, like the shriek of wolves in the night. As they rushed in, Combeferre and Courfeyrac moved to barricade the door with…

"No!" he cried. "Don't touch that!" Ignoring his words, his brother and the Professor continued to throw furniture and ancient artifacts in front of the door, Jehan even helping. Enjolras despaired; the artifacts! Such history, being treated so carelessly in front of his eyes… it greatly distressed him. "Those are 3000 year old artifacts you people are throwing around!" He moved to stop them, but was tugged back by an iron grip on his wrist.

"Not now, Angel," Grantaire said firmly. Enjolras gaped up at him incredulously. 

"Excuse me?" he exclaimed. "Grantaire, that is _history_ being thrown around!" He writhed in his grasp, but Grantaire held firm, dragging him away. "No!" Throwing a vicious glare back at him, he yelled "How can you not care? Are you serious about anything?"

Grimly, he replied, "I haven't been serious about anything, Angel, because there hasn't been anything to be serious about up until now." And with that, he hauled him away, despite his loud protests and thrashing, to where Montparnasse was fiddling with the boarded up door to the balcony. 

Already in a foul temper, he snapped, "It hasn't been opened in…" He trailed off dumbfoundedly at the door being wrenched open by Montparnasse's deft fingers.

"Sorry pretty boy, but security can't win out against thieve's luck." 

Enjolras bristled. How had this Montparnasse even known about the south west balcony? He was an American, had only spent a couple days here… he would remind Monsieur Valjean about securing the museum better once this was over.

The door they had barricaded came crashing down, and with a scream, Enjolras thought that maybe now wasn’t the best time to dwell on such thoughts. 

There was another tug on his wrist and once again he was running by Grantaire. “Time to go time to go time to go!”

“Yes, you’ve said that already!” he screamed over the crowd pouring into the room, hot on their heels as the rest made a dash to where Bahorel and Feuilly waited anxiously with the jeep. 

“Imhotep! IMHOTEP!” 

At his side, Grantaire turned his head, his eyes burning as he realized the man to whom the voice calling for the mummy’s attention to their location belonged to. Without breaking a sweat, he pushed Enjolras towards the jeep and snarled back: “You’re going to get yours, Thenardier!”

At the jeep, Enjolras hoisted himself into the vehicle, where the rest already awaited, sans Montparnasse (where did he go?)

“Enj, move the fuck over!” Courfeyrac cried. 

“I’m already squished, genius!” he snapped as he felt the wind rush out of his body when Combeferre, followed by Joly, joined them in the backseat, while the front already looked as if it were full to bursting. Why again had they deemed it necessary that all of them go to the museum again? 

Supposedly, according to Bahorel, they were all a group now—a team.

There was still one overarching problem… there was no more space left for Grantaire to sit. And yet, he was still climbing onto Enjolras’ edge of the jeep. 

“Grantaire what are you—” he cut himself off with a yelp when he felt broad hands lift him up, and for a moment—just one brief moment lightning flash of a moment—he feared that Grantaire may throw him out of the jeep and let the mummy take him—but that fear was quickly replaced by a surge of shame for ever thinking he was possible of such a thing.

And then that shame was replaced by a shot of mortification as he realized what Grantaire meant to do when he slipped into the spot Enjolras was sitting in and instead seated Enjolras in his lap. 

“Grantaire!” he hissed, cheeks flushed red hot. “What are you doing?” 

Around his waist, he felt a pair of arms loop around and tighten. “Just going to have to make do with what we can, Angel.”

Alright, he conceded the point that they have to do what they can to all fit, but this was just—just embarrassing, mortifying, satisfying… 

He jolted out of his shocking thoughts as the jeep started and he pitched forwards—and they all pitched forward—the car careening into the streets of Cairo as Bahorel looked for an escape.

When Bahorel suddenly slammed on the brakes, sending everyone screaming and Enjolras nearly toppling out of the jeep, he screamed and braced for impact, only to feel himself yanked back as Grantaire pants, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.” 

Enjolras simply shook his head, eyes wide. “I don’t really think we’re okay Grantaire, not when there’s that.” He pointed to the scene in front of them.

In the middle of the street, crowding them all up in the jeep, stood Imhotep’s followers, cornering them with no other way to go.

 _“Well shit,”_ whispered Joly. Up in front next to Bahorel, Feuilly’s face took on a look of grim determination. 

“Save your shit for later, my friend,” he muttered. 

“You know, the way you say that—” Courferyac started but was unable to finish as they all screamed when Feuilly took his foot and slammed it on the accelerator, sending their car shooting forward through the crowd of zombies. 

“FEUILLY WHAT THE FUCK!” 

A barrage of bodies latched themselves onto the jeep as Bahorel steered the car and Feuilly kept his foot firmly pressing down on the accelerator. 

In a blur, he threw his fists left and right, joining with the rest as they fired guns and swing fists and slashed knives at the attacking mob to defend the jeep as it continued to drive. 

________________________________________________

Montparnasse was a thief. Slipping away undetected, getting himself to safety—these were all skills he had learned in his life, and contrary to what so many law enforcers thought, they really were helping him, especially in this situation. 

For a moment, thief’s instinct overcame him and he checked his pocket to reaffirm that the precious jar he had found was still with him. 

He shot through the alleys. Really, he couldn’t give two shits less what happened to the others—as long as he got himself to safety, he was fine. 

When he turned left, he was met with a crowd of those—those _things._

He smiled grimly and cocked his pistol. Raising it, he fired. 

And nothing came out.

For a moment, his eyebrows furrowed. He took aim again and fired. 

Nothing. 

Montparnasse himself had never really felt much but cool detachment in his life, so these tendrils of panic and fear were new. 

He pulled the trigger again and again and again and still _nothing_ and the crowd was about to descend upon him, they were getting closer and closer and _closer_ and Montparnasse turned to run—

But something grabbed his arm, and despite his best efforts, he felt himself roughly turned, and boy did the blood rush out of his face. 

The mummy was looking to be in good health indeed, he just seemed to need a few… finishing touches, and Montparnasse was quite sure he knew where he would be getting them.

________________________________________________

Somewhere in the night sky, Enjolras caught sound of a blood curdling scream, and cursing, he already knew what it was as he turned around to try glance back. Grantaire let out a rush of breath as Enjolras squirmed to turn and steadied him with his hands firmly placed on Enjolras’ waist. 

“Montparnasse! Montparnasse!” he screamed into the air, above the shouts and grunts of his friends still grappling with the last of the mob on their car, but his calls were to no avail, and a sense of dread filled his stomach as he realized what happened.

“Shit!” Jehan screamed. “Feuilly stop! Stop!” 

Enjolras turned to see what they were so frantic about, and promptly turned once more to clutch at Grantaire to brace for impact as they all screamed when the car barreled head on into a tall trough of water, thoroughly dousing them all in water and sending the car spinning and stopping to a halt. He tumbled out , stumbling as Grantaire pulled him once more away from the crowd and— _shit, when did they get so close._

He felt himself pull towards a cart, and he looked left and right and in front and they were _trapped,_ there was just a building wall behind them all, and the crowd was still descending on them and he looked around wildly but there was no way out. He jumped when he felt a hand grasp his and he glanced up at Grantaire, who looked down at him with a serious expression, but his eyes softened for just a moment—just one—long enough to bring Enjolras’ hand up to his lips to press a kiss before turning back to face the crowd with a grim look.

They were surrounded on all sides with no more bullets or dynamite, and Enjolras knew the crowd was far too thick to fight through with a knife. So when the sea of people parted to let Imhotep through, he already made up his mind knowing full well what was about to occur. Lightly, he dropped Grantaire's hand from his own. In his peripheral, he spotted Grantaire briefly glance at him. Imhotep took a step forward, extending his hand out to him. 

_"Keetah mi pharos, aja nilo, isirlan."_

"Come with me, my prince, it is time to make you mine forever," Thenardier translated on behalf of the mummy. 

Enjolras threw a nasty look at Thenardier. "All eternity, idiot," he corrected, irritated. Neither the mummy nor Thenardier broke stride.

" _Koontash dai na."_

"Take my hand and I will spare your friends.”

Enjolras took a good look around him. The crowd looked hungry, bloodthirsty, ready to pounce on their puny group with their hundreds of swords and scimitars. All this could be stopped, his brother, his friends— _Grantaire_ —could be saved if he could just be a little brave and put in a little faith into his group. Glancing back at their worried faces, he steeled himself before stepping towards the mummy and placing his trembling hand in his. Behind him, Grantaire and Courfeyrac both tried to frantically rush forwards, but were both stopped by either hand from Javert. Grantaire struggled vainly against the man's grip. 

"No, Enjolras, don't do this!" 

Without turning around, he replied, "I have to. I have no other choice." He shivered when the mummy's hand wrapped around his own. 

Schooling his face into what he hoped was convincingly calm and didn't betray any of the major panic thrumming underneath his skin, Enjolras turned to look back at Grantaire. "You'd better think of something," he told him, "because if he turns me into a mummy, you're the first one I'm coming after." Grantaire's lip twitched. 

"You've got guts, Angel." 

"Yes, and I'd like to keep them. He's taking me to Hamunaptra to perform the ritual and if I don't see you show up, so God help me I will unleash the plagues on you." He gave him a tight smile.

Despite his words, Grantaire still struggled against Javert's grip. He watched as Javert murmured something in his ear that made him sag, instead turning loathsome eyes on the mummy, muttering, "I'll be seeing you." Enjolras glanced nervously at Imhotep's face, watching as a look of recognition dawned on his face. In the blink of any eye, he ripped the puzzle box key out of his pocket. Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but looking once more at the crowd, swallowed his complaints quietly. With a great tug on his wrist, the mummy turned him around and began to lead him through the crowd and away from his friends. 

"Enjolras! Wait! ENJOLRAS!" Closing his eyes he did his best to drown out Grantaire's cries of his name by formulating a plan in his head. He was suddenly halted when the mummy abruptly stopped in his tracks. 

He watched as Imhotep glanced over his shoulder and uttered two horrific words, _"Parad oos."_

_NO!_

Enjolras screamed and tried to break free of the mummy's now iron-hard grip. Thenardier smiled wickedly. 

"Kill them." 

"NO!" He struggled in vain and tried his best to turn back around to look at his friends. Grantaire's panicked eyes sought out his own. 

"ENJOLRAS! NO! ANGEL WAIT! ENJOLRAS!" 

________________________________________________

Grantaire pushed Javert aside and tried to give chase to Enjolras' retreating figure. 

"ENJOLRAS! ENJOLRAS NO!" 

The crowd bore down upon them in an instant, pouncing, ready to devour—

A strong hand pulled him down into the manhole beneath them. He yelped and grabbed Courfeyrac's hand, who yelped and grabbed Combeferre's hand, who yelped and grabbed onto the next. 

Soon, an entire chain of men were pulled down into the manhole out of the way of the bloodthirsty crowd. 

________________________________________________

The minute he landed in the watery but found he was still able to stand on the solid ground beneath the water, Grantaire grabbed at his blade and slashed at whoever the fuck it was that wanted to pick a fight now.

Instead, in a rather impressive feat of strength, he felt his arm halted and the blade wrenched from his hand as a voice, in a calm manner that was very opposite the feeling of the actions to whom the voice belonged to, said, “Easy, son. It’s safer down here, I’m not here to pick fights.”

Incredulously, Grantaire looked up into the face of Monsieur Valjean, and briefly wondered how it was that a man like him could have such strength at his age.

The rest all struggled to their feet, though Combeferre and especially Courfeyrac seemed more frantic about it.

"We've gotta get him back." Grantaire' tone was less of a question and more of a final decision. He was soaking wet, out of breath, and tired to the point of utter exhaustion— _and he didn't care._ Because Enjolras wasn't here. Enjolras was with that freaking _mummy,_ headed off to become his _beloved,_ and Grantaire had sworn he wouldn’t let that happen. He would never allow such a thing to take place. He would only breathe easy once Enjolras was back safe in his arms again. 

In front of him, desperately trying to catch his breath, Courfeyrac nodded. 

"I'm with you." He looked up with fierce eyes. "No one touches my baby brother like that and gets away with it." Grantaire turned to look at Javert. 

"You know where he's taking him, don't you?" Javert gave him a swift nod. 

"To Hamunaptra. It's there he's going to perform the ritual." Courfeyrac's head snapped in Javert's direction, an expression of worry gracing his features. 

"And what ritual would that be?" he inquired in fear. 

"The ritual to bring back Metjen." 

"And how exactly does one do that?" 

"By reading from the _Book of the Dead_." A nervous smile broke out over Courf's face as he turned away and breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Ah, oh course." 

"And then killing your brother," Javert added nonchalantly. Courfeyrac's head turned so hard Grantaire feared the man may have given himself whiplash. 

"I'm sorry, what?" Ignoring his words, Javert turned back to face Grantaire.

"Imhotep is now able to cross the desert with great haste," he remarked. On the side Courfeyrac stood grasping at his hair in panic, muttering under his breath. 

"Bloody hell… he doesn't actually mean…" He looked back up at Javert. "I'm sorry I don't think I was very clear on that last one." 

"If he arrives before us," Javert continued, "it will be too late." 

"Did you just say 'kill' my brother? Little Enjolras?" 

_So we need to cross the desert quicker than him?_

Grantaire smiled. 

"I know how to beat him to it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ride in cars with more people than seats, people. This was Cairo in the 1920's, not a great example to follow today. 
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quest to save our protagonist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm not sure who is still even bothering to read this fic, I'm so sorry for not updating last week you guys, or not uploading in time yesterday either. I really struggled with writing out this chapter. If you're still reading this fic, thank you :) . HOPEFULLY I can get the last chapter up by next Saturday. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

"So what's your group's little problem got to do with the People's Protective French Air Force?" 

They eight of them—because apparently Javert wouldn't be coming with them, the bastard—all stood huddled around General Lamarque. Grantaire had just finished relaying the entire story to the old man, who looked excited at the thrill of the adventure. He grinned; he knew Lamarque wouldn't be able to resist the allure of danger. 

Shrugging his shoulders, he replied "Honestly? Not a goddamn thing."

While this answer should have disinterested the old man, it instead did quite the opposite. Intrigued, he sat forward in his chair. 

"Is it dangerous?" 

Bahorel clicked his tongue. "You probably won't live to see another day." 

Lamarque's eyes sparkled. "By God, do you really think so?" 

"Everyone else we've bumped into has died. Why wouldn't you?" muttered Joly. 

Lamarque nodded excitedly. "So what's the mission then?" Grantaire grinned. 

"To save the _real_ gold of Hamunaptra, kill the bad guy, steal his treasure, and maybe seal it all with a kiss at the end." 

Lamarque jumped out of his seat in enthusiasm, giving them a dramatic salute. "General Lamarque, here at your service!" 

________________________________________________

Enjolras was _tired._

He had no idea how long he had been walking through this godforsaken desert. In the sweltering heat, with the exception of one water break, Imhotep had kept them moving the entire time. His feet throbbed mercilessly, and the wrist which the mummy had grabbed him by had turned out to be the one he had injured, so not only was his throat parched from thirst, his body aching from exhaustion, and his feet dead, but his wrist was also constantly making him spot faint, dancing stars. 

Once, the mummy had offered to carry him, if it would make the trip go faster, but Enjolras had steadfastly denied, his mind flashing back to memories of a different man picking him up and carrying him, holding him in close and warm and safe… 

He was jerked out of his memories when he suddenly found himself airborne. He screamed as he went soaring through the air, landing in a dune, sprawled flat next to Thenardier. Panting, he watched as Imhotep solidified once more, no doubt the sandstorm that swept him and Thenardier up in the air. The mummy looked to be in deep concentration.

"What just happened?" he asked as he shook the sand from his hair. Thenardier sat there looking dazed. 

"All I remember is him turning into a blast of sand… and then I remember nothing." 

_WHIRRRR…_

Above them, Enjolras was able to make out the faint sound of a spinning blade. 

_What?_

________________________________________________

The eight of them—plus Lamarque of course—had to squeeze to fit into the tiny plane. At first, Grantaire had suggested that only he and Courfeyrac, go to save Enjolras, but of course Combeferre had to argue that Enjolras was like a little brother to him, and then Bahorel said he wasn't going to lounge around while the "Chief" was in danger, and Feuilly reminded him that he was his senior officer and could thereby order him to let him come, and Joly told them that it was necessary they have a doctor present in case things went awry, and Bossuet said he was undeterred by his apparent "bad luck" and that the "lad" needed to be rescued, and Jehan claimed they would all be completely lost without their knowledge of Egyptology—and _in short?_

They all ended up coming.

So, in the present moment, the eight of them sat tight in the plane, screaming as Lamarque whipped through the air, flying the plane in the most unsafe fashion Grantaire would ever go through. He fought to keep his nausea down as Lamarque laughed merrily. 

________________________________________________

Squinting his eyes, Enjolras spotted what he thought—no, scratch that—knew was a plane. Soaring through the air, it seemed to be making its way over to where they were. 

_Wait, who is that?_

Upon better inspection, Enjolras could make out eight, plus the pilot, figures all squished together, faces fixed in expressions of permanent screams. He laughed a little when he realized who the people in the plane were. 

_They came for me!_

_Grantaire came for me!_

His momentary joy was cut short, however when his ears rang with a shrill shriek. Wincing, he rushed to cover his ears as he turned to watch in horror as the mummy unhinged his jaw and, screaming, erected a giant wall of sand in the air set up straight in the path of the plane. His heart dropped. 

_No._

________________________________________________

_Holy shit._

Mentally deciding that this would be the last time he ever stepped foot on a plane again, Grantaire looked on in impending panic as the wall of sand rose up in front of them. Behind him, the rest of the crew screamed. 

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" 

"OH MY GOD!"

"WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

"I HAVEN'T EVEN TOLD YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU!" 

"WELL I LOVE YOU TOO!"

"NONONONONONO!"

"THIS IS JUST MY LUCK!"

Meanwhile, Grantaire was trying his best to ignore the game of dominance his guts were playing down in his body. He did _not_ need any ill- fated vomit fests. Beside him, Lamarque cackled in unrestrained joy. 

"Squeeze tight boys! It's about to get… sandy!" 

_“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”_

_That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard_ would have been something Grantaire would have said if he wasn’t too busy screaming and gripping onto his seat. 

They shot through the air at speeds which he had previously thought impossible, careening right and left as the sandstorm behind them gave chase to their tiny plane. 

“Left!” called Lamarque as he suddenly sent the plane rolling through the sky left. 

“NO STOP STOP STOP!”

Turning back around. Grantaire spotted the sandstorm quickly take shape—the shape of the grinning head of the mummy. 

“Right!”

“WAIT, NO DON’T— _AAAAHHHH!”_

As they tumbled through the sky, Grantaire watched in the rearview mirror as the sandy head of Imhotep unhinged his jaw, surged forwards—

And engulfed their plane.

“Hold on boys!”

They all screamed for mercy as the sandstorm surrounded the plane and began to rock them dangerously in the air.

________________________________________________

“NO!” Enjolras jumped to his feet and grabbed the mummy’s arm, shaking it violently. “Stop it! You’ll kill them!” Imhotep looked at him and laughed, closing his eyes and flexing his fingers, strengthening the force of the storm. In the air, the sound of eight shrill screams sliced through the air like a scythe. He watched in terror as the giant head of sand took over the plane, sending it spinning out of control through the air, sand so thick around it the plane was almost invisible from view. 

_Think, Enjolras, think!_

With a hesitant look at the concentrated face of the mummy, and a last desperate glance at the tumbling plane, he flung his arms around Imhotep’s neck and kissed him hard on the lips. The mummy made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, ripping his eyes open to peer down at Enjolras. Using his momentary distraction to his advantage, Enjolras turned the man around, facing away from the storm. The mummy wrapped his arms around his waist and brought him closer, kissing him back fiercely. Trying his best not to squirm, Enjolras watched as the storm ceased immediately, the mummy’s concentration effectively broken. He pulled himself away, grinning as he watched the plane fight its way out of the remaining sand. 

“Yes!” His victory was short-lived, however, when he noticed the plane had lost all control over itself from the force of the sandstorm. He watched in horror as the plane hurtled towards the ground, heading towards its inevitable crash.

“NO!”

________________________________________________

Inside the sandstorm, the plane lost all virtual control over itself; the General was trying in vain to gain back control of the plane as the storm tossed them through the air, sending them spinning, tumbling, crashing. 

Behind him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had their arms around each other, hanging onto one another for dear life, Feuilly was furiously muttering a prayer, Bossuet was crying that this was just his bad luck, Bahorel had wrapped his enormous arms around Jehan and Joly, who was yelling something about the sort of illnesses that may be present in the dust and sand. Grantaire himself was ready to give out as he felt the plane tip and his own body dangerously teeter to the side. He screamed.

“I’ve got you boy!” Lamarque used his free hand to grip onto his shirt sleeve. 

As the plane rolled through the sky, the sand surrounding them suddenly dropped to the ground, leaving the plane that had so far been carried by the force of the storm, alone with nothing to propel them. 

“We’re going down men!” Lamarque laughed maniacally. 

“YOU’RE INSANE!”

_“AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!”_

The plane went into a free fall as it plunged towards the Earth. The wind slapped at his face as he braced himself for impact, screaming like he had never before. 

“Here we go laddies!”

________________________________________________

“ _AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”_

________________________________________________

_CRASH!_

________________________________________________

_BOOM!_

________________________________________________

The wind was knocked out of his lungs as they smashed into a sand dune. Screaming, his vision did a complete 360 as he felt the plane roll and _roll_ until eventually their momentum came to a halt and Grantaire came crashing down onto the sandy ground. He groaned. 

_I’m never getting on another one of those deathtraps again. It was for Enjolras. Only for Enjolras._

“Excuse me, but can we get some help here? Please? GRANTAIRE!” 

Shaking out of his trance, he forced himself on his shaky legs, staggering over to where the rest of his friends hung upside down. Pale, shaking, and muttering nonsensically, it seemed the rest of the group shared Grantaire’s sentiments regarding plane rides. Whoever fashioned the airplane must be very disappointed; to have spent so long creating a mode of transportation no one in the future would want to use! Grantaire pitied them. No sir, the future was simply ships and perhaps better cars. 

Rifling through the seats, they all staggered away with whatever weapons and ammo had survived the journey. Glancing back at the pilot’s cockpit, Grantaire realized with a slight jolt that General Lamarque was dead. With a peaceful smile on his face, the life he had for so long grown bored of had at last left his body. 

“Poor General…” Jehan murmured as they looked upon his body. They jerked back when the sand around them started to shift and give away. 

“GET TO HIGHER GROUND!” Combeferre yelled, latching onto Courfeyrac’s hand, tugging him away to more solid sand. Grantaire himself tried to make his legs move, but found he lacked the strength. Quickly, Bahorel hauled him up by the waist, dragging him away (huh—so this is how Enjolras felt when he would pick him up) just as the sand lurched and swallowed the plane—Lamarque included—whole. They stared. 

“Well, at least he went out with a final bang,” Grantaire remarked. He grinned and gave a hearty salute. “So long, General.”

________________________________________________

_Great. Back at the start of the entire mess._

Climbing down the ravine, Grantaire paused to look over the familiar ruins of Hamunaptra. Twisting his mouth, he shook his head in contempt. There was nothing special about the place anymore; he admitted, the first time he had arrived on the grounds of the ancient city, excitement had coursed through his veins and he had been left breathless, but that had been at the thought of the gold supposedly hidden inside. His memories of the place now left him wearied and tired; there just wasn’t anything worth dwelling here for. 

_But Grantaire, think about the history! It’s not about the treasure! Do you know how many Pharaohs have roamed these lands? They entrusted these lands with the secrets of death, would come only to perform the most dangerous of rituals, it’s the whole reason why the place is known as the City of the Dead! Grantaire did you know_ —

He smiled. Maybe he didn’t care much for Hamunaptra anymore, but Enjolras did. And even after this whole hellish adventure, if he wanted to come back, then Grantaire would be damned if he didn’t come along, letting himself be dragged around by Enjolras' little hand so delicate in his own, listening and laughing as Enjolras rambled on and on about the history of Egypt. He would watch as his eyes would come alive, passionate and bright and glowing, until Enjolras would look up and see the way Grantaire would be looking at him, so, _so gone._ And then Grantaire would watch as Enjolras would blush and smile shyly, closing his eyes and hitching his breath when Grantaire would back him up against the wall, bracing one hand beside Enjolras’ head of curly hair, _leaning down towards his lips and—_

“So what the hell does this Horus guy even look like?” Bahorel’s voice jerked him out of his daydream. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath. _One step at a time._ What he needed to focus on was first getting Enjolras back; the rest, if it ever came to be, came later. 

Jehan opened their mouth to answer, but was beaten to speech by Courfeyrac. 

“He’s a big fellow with pointy ears and a face like a falcon,” he declared. Jehan shook their head and rolled their eyes. 

"Idiots.”

________________________________________________

The recent turn of events had forced Enjolras to reconsider quite a lot of his beliefs. Too much of what he strongly thought had been shaken to prove he was wrong in many instances. In times like these, he wasn't quite so sure about anything anymore. 

However, one thing he was quite sure of was that he hated this Thenardier man. How Grantaire managed to stand him during his days in the French Foreign Legion was beyond him. 

As he stood, disgusted with the sight of the rotting underground cemetery before him, he felt another prod at his back, and he closed his eyes in frustration. 

"Keep moving." 

Snapping his eyes open, he turned suddenly to glare at the rat-like man. 

"You know, Thenardier, nasty fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance," he said coldly. For a moment, Thenardier laughed, but when Enjolras continued to let his frigid silence stretch on, he stopped, a worried expression gracing his face. He bit at his lip. 

"They… they do?" he asked hesitantly. Enjolras leaned in closer, his eyes full of cold fury. 

"Oh yes," he reaffirmed, "always." With that, he walked on ahead, leaving behind a very nervous Thenardier. 

________________________________________________

The passageway inside the pyramid looked quite the same as before, softly lit aglow in by the torches some of their members were carrying, dust clouding up with each footstep taken. 

It wasn't as if Grantaire resented anyone, no that certainly wasn't the case at all. In fact, Grantaire would say he's made much more genuine friends with these people he's met on this trip than he's ever before (especially with Joly and Bossuet--he really must sit down and simply have a drink with those two.) It's just that, logically as anyone would be able to tell, it takes quite a bit of time for eight people to move together and time was running out and _he still didn't know about what Enjolras was going through and that just wasn't okay and they needed to HURRY UP._

"Damn." Bossuet's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. "You guys, take a look at this." 

Grantaire whipped around to snap at Bossuet that they didn't have _time_ to _take a look_ at anything, but the words died in horror as he caught sight of what exactly it was that Bossuet wanted them to look at. 

In his hand he held a beetle—the same type that had chased him, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac out of the pyramid when the first plague came down upon them, except this one seemed to have had a sort of outer shell that Bossuet was clutching in his other hand, a shiny jewelry. 

A shell they had seen litter the ground near where the warden had been standing when he had gone insane. 

The realization slammed him and he cried, "Bossuet no, don't!" at the same time the beetle came to life, and in the blink of an eye, burrowed underneath Bossuet's skin. 

"What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK!" Bossuet started screaming as the visible outline of the beetle scurried its way fast up his arm, covered by his shirt sleeve. Madly, Grantaire bolted to where he was panicking and thrashing, ripping open Bossuet' shirtsleeve to better see where the bug had gotten up to. In a flash, Joly was there too by his side, pulling out a knife as Grantaire already grimly knew what had to be done. 

"Sorry, Boss, this may sting a little," Joly said absentmindedly.

"Wait what are you—" he cut off into a scream as Joly dug the tip of the knife into his skin in a way that was by no means gentle, slicing his shoulder open as Grantaire latched onto Bossuet's other arm in an attempt to keep him still as he thrashed about. With the skin now tore open, the beetle came scuttling into view, and with the tip of his knife, Joly flung the beetle far from the rest of the group as Bossuet continued to scream, clutching at his bloody shoulder, then jumping back as the beetle then immediately turned and tried to scurry back towards the three. Grantaire hurried to draw his pistol, and with a single bullet he fired and blew the hellbeast to pieces. 

The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's breathing heavy in shock, but in the midst of it, Feuilly weakly spoke up.

"As if your luck couldn't get any worse, Bossuet."

________________________________________________

The walls reverberated with the sound of a gunshot that had Enjolras gasping and turning to try and seek out the source. Apart from himself, Thenardier, and Imhotep, there was no one else he could think of inside the pyramid. No one else except eight rather remarkable individuals who he didn't think could have cared so much about him. And within those eight, one very special individual who seemed to be following through on his promise not to abandon him again.

 _They came,_ he thought with a small smile. 

Beside him, it seemed Imhotep didn't agree with his sentiments, scowling as he rifled through the Book of the Dead. Uneasily, Enjolras wondered what incantation he could possibly be searching for. 

Whatever it was, he seemed to have found it, for he started to move his lips in a gentle murmur, soft enough that Enjolras, to his utter frustration, could not hear, and he bent down to gather a handful of sand, throwing it at the wall behind Enjolras.

The wall was decorated with the rather beautiful engravings of four soldiers, all wielding beautifully carved spears. Briefly, he wondered how old the drawings must be.

But any sort of calculations he had begun mentally all flew out of his head as he gasped and tripped backwards over himself in a bid to try and get away from the wall because— _dear God those drawings weren’t just drawings anymore why in the world were they moving?_

The soldiers seemed to melt right off the wall—whatever it was that Imhotep must have incanted, it brought the drawings to life, and suddenly, Enjolras didn’t think their spears looked so beautiful anymore, and neither did Thenardier, judging by the way he seemed to turn tail and duck behind Imhotep’s form for cover. And by the way the entire passage--the entire pyramid, in fact--seemed to shake, it seemed that these priests weren’t the only ones out there. 

As he scurried to move back, he crashed into the solid chest of the mummy, who clamped his hands down on his shoulders in an iron grip that seemed to hold him captive more than offer a reassurance of safety from the advancing soldiers, though, at Imhotep’s action, they stopped.

Enjolras waited with baited breath; clearly the soldiers were awaiting instruction. But no—now that he had the chance to look at them better, Enjolras could see that the figures weren’t really soldiers, more like priests. Still, they were priests wielding spears and evidently looked to be trained, too.

Behind him, Imhotep rumbled off, “ _Kill them. Kill them all.”_

His stomach dropped. _No._

With a nod of his head, the priests marched off opposite the direction they had arrived—and Enjolras whirled around in Imhotep’s grip, furious.

“What?” he yelled. “No! Don’t!” He banged his fists against Imhotep’s chest. “No, call them off! I’m coming with you willingly! Call them off!” He continued banging his fists in anger. What the fuck? _What the fuck?_ He was doing everything the way he wanted him to, he was marching willingly to his doom—or, well, at least, he let Imhotep think he was marching him to his doom—he was following him willingly, why couldn’t he just leave his friends alone? “Call them off! Please! Please?” His voice softened on the last plea. Maybe if he tried a gentler, calmer and more imploring approach, he would listen. 

The mummy continued to peer down at him, and Enjolras was wondering whether he should maybe just try and knock him out, grab the book, and make a run for it, when suddenly, he cracked a smile. Cautiously, Enjolras gave him a small smile back.

Then, suddenly tightening his grip, Imhotep raised his right hand high, striking Enjolras across the face and plunging his world into a quiet darkness.

________________________________________________

Grantaire watched as Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Alright, from now on, perhaps we should simply refrain from touching—"

"Anything," Grantaire finished roughly. "Just don't touch anything."

Combeferre pursed his lips as he watched Joly fret over a traumatized Bossuet. "Are you sure you two are… up to continue with us?" he asked concernedly. 

Bossuet opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, Joly beat him to the chase. "I believe it's in all our best interests if both stay behind."

"Wait, I can handle it, we can go—" 

"Joly's right, Boss," Feuilly interjected. "You should probably take care of that arm. The last thing you want to deal with is an infection." 

Bossuet frowned, but eventually conceded. "Fine. But we'll stay _right_ outside the pyramid, just in case—”

He cut off with a yelp as the earth beneath them began them seemed to come to life, shaking with a series of tremors that nearly knocked them all of their feet. Above them, the ceiling crumbled as dirt and small bits of debris dusted their shoulders. 

“Fuck this place scares the shit out of me.” Bahorel muttered when the shaking finally stopped. 

________________________________________________

Thenardier hung back in the shadows as he watched the mummy gather the body of the unconscious boy up against his chest and carry him off for whatever the hell ritual he was talking about, leaving him completely alone.

Now was his chance.

Turning tail, Thenardier ran to try and seek out the exit.

________________________________________________

Even in the dark, as Grantaire and the rest all squeezed through the crevice-like pathways and entered a room they had not seen the last time, he could make out a glint. 

Above him, he noticed a small crack in the ceiling where a tiny stream of light filtered through the otherwise dark room. 

_Okay. So what are the mirrors for?_

_Bit of an ancient Egyptian trick. You'll see._

Turning his gaze once more towards the glint in front of his eyes, he drew his pistol and fired. 

All at once, the room flooded with light as what he knew was a mirror turned and projected the beam of light onto another reflective surface which in turn projected onto another mirror which in turn reflected onto another mirror and so on and so forth until eventually the entire room was filled with light, much like Enjolras had shown them the first time they had ventured into the pyramid, before this whole mess started.

_Huh. That is a neat trick._

He shook his head.

 _You know what else would be a neat trick?_ his mind asked gruffly. _Getting Enj back. Focus._

“Holy shit.”

Grantaire shook himself out of his thoughts to see what the matter was with Bahorel, when he caught sight of what lay in front of them--and he himself had to admit, the sight really did take up his attention for a moment. 

“The rumours are all real then,” Courfeyrac whispered, “the wealth of Egypt does reside in the city of gold.”

Gold and brightly coloured jewelry—albeit a bit rusted--laid in piles all throughout the room, lending the room a golden glow to it. 

No one seemed to be able to form any words. The wealth of Egypt… all the gold of the civilization… Just one handful of this, Grantaire realized, and every single one of their fates could change… Courfeyrac would never have to work his boring-ass law job at the embassy again, Combeferre wouldn’t have to beg for funds for research, Feuilly would be able to step away from the Legion, Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet wouldn’t have to do… well, whatever the hell it was they did, Grantaire could live without having to worry over where the money would come from--live quite comfortably in fact, and Enjolras… 

He jolted out of his gold-induced lust. _Enjolras_. What was he doing, standing here while Enjolras was God knows where? 

The gold could come later. Right now, he needed to focus on getting the _real_ gold of his life back. 

Turning around to the rest, he opened his mouth to say just about as much when he felt a hand on his shoulder . He turned to snap at the person demanding his attention. 

Instead, he screamed, “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

What was that? What was that? _What was that?_

He staggered backwards as a mummy, much like Imhotep himself save for the fact that this one was a lot smaller, ambled towards him, another close behind. Combeferre drew his gun and fired, one at each, the rest watching as the mummies collapsed, their entire middles blown clean off. “Uh, what exactly were those?” he asked uncertainly as he slid his pistol back in his holster. 

Jehan looked grim. “When Imhotep was mummified, his priests were given the same treatment. I suppose that with his new life comes the priests, too.”

“So a package deal, huh?” Courfeyrac muttered. 

Jehan rolled their eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I’ve never killed a priest before,” Combeferre confessed, looking troubled. 

Jehan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t look so remorseful, my friend. They’re evil and cursed. They don’t really matter.”

Bahorel winced. “Jesus, I would’ve thought you would be the last person to say something like that.” 

Jehan gave them all a mystifying smile. “The more you know about Egyptology…” they shrugged. 

Feuilly looked unnerved. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Grantaire heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can we please focus here?” he asked, glaring at the rest. It seemed, however, Courfeyrac hadn’t heard him; instead, his eyes were transfixed behind Grantaire, his expression both incredulous and uncertain. 

“Hold on,” he said. “If the priests are like… _him…_ doesn’t that mean they won’t, won’t uh—”

_Won’t die._

Whirling on his feet, he watched in a mix of horror and exasperation as the legs of the mummies tried crawling towards them, the torsos not too far behind. 

“Come on, give me a break,” he sighed. 

They all backed away into a run, heading for the nearest passageway. If this was anything like Imhotep, this would not end well, and unfortunately for Grantaire, Enjolras’ cat—who Enjolras had named Bastet, by the way, what an adorable nerd—was nowhere nearby.

_Left!_

They all turned—and crashed when Bahorel abruptly stopped and steered them all towards the corridor to the east. 

“Not here not here not here!” he yelled frantically. Grantaire was about to yell back and ask why, but decided it would be better to keep his mouth shut when he saw three more skeletal priests head his way. 

_Okay fine, run east!_ His mind rushed to give the rest of his body instructions.

“No not that way!” Jehan cried as this time they halted and pushed the rest to run for the western corridor away from where five more mummies seemed to be melting off the walls and coming for them.

His heart pounded as he kept running, changing direction every which way because the place seemed to be _crawling_ with mummies. Soon enough, his surroundings all blurred into one long corridor as his mind failed to keep track of which way they fled.

“This whole place is coming alive!” Feuilly yelled. 

At the other end of their current hallway, a crew of six mummies all came to life right in front of their eyes. Grantaire struggled to catch his breath as they all raised their weapons to aim blow after blow—but nothing seemed to be working. All it ever seemed to do was buy them the slightest bit of time before the mummies rejoined themselves again and began to make their way towards them once more. 

Gunshots rang out as they all decided it was futile and ran the other way, back where they knew more rejoined mummies were likely waiting. 

And yet, he pushed himself on. 

_Where are you Enjolras? And where’s that goddamn book of yours?_

________________________________________________

Thenardier had had enough of this nonsense. As he kept running, desperately seeking out where the goddamnit exit from this hellhole was, he couldn’t help but think that there were so many better people to scam back at Cairo, he would make a much better fortune there, what even was the need to come on the trip, he hadn’t even made a single bit of--

He stopped abruptly in his tracks as he entered a new room, one glowing with a glorious light, a room filled entirely with beautifully glittering—

_Gold._

________________________________________________

_My wrist. Why does it throb so?_ Groaning, Enjolras blinked his eyes open, his blurry vision clearing to reveal a vast ceiling above him. Confused, he realized he was laid face up on something hard, something like a… 

Panic seized his body. 

He was lying atop a preparation table.

A table for the preparation of mummies. 

_Oh shit._

Struggling, he tried to pull himself up, only to find his arms wouldn’t budge. 

_No._

Tugging hard, he strained his arms and struggled against the chains he glanced up to realize were tightly locked over his wrists, digging hard into the flesh of his injured left. 

_No no no no no no no._

Panicking, he tossed his head from side to side and pulled at the chains shackling his wrists, desperately trying to escape from his bonds. On his left he noticed the five sacred jars lined up. When he turned to his right, his heart stopped in his chest. Lying next to him was the crumbling body of a mummy, head turned to face him. The chamber echoed with the sound of his scream. 

_WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?_

________________________________________________

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

“WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THESE THINGS COMING FROM?” Courfeyrac screamed as they all rounded yet another corner.

“DOES IT LOOK LIKE I KNOW?” Grantaire roared back as he blasted once more from his gun and urged the rest to all change direction once more.

“These things just won’t quit!” Feuilly exclaimed. They turned the corner once more and—

Oh. 

Suddenly there weren’t any more corners to turn. None except the one guarded heavily by eight mummy priests all with wickedly glinting spears. 

At this point, Grantaire felt as if he was going to throw up if he had to run any longer. 

From their left, rushed in a horde of mummies. On the right, the same sight greeted them. Boxed in, they had nowhere to go and nothing to do but fire and fire and _fire_ and suddenly they were all firing every-which-way, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac—GOD BLESS THEM—had the sense to fire rapidly into the horde guarding the next corner, and they all pulled the next person behind them through the crowd as they continued to blast away and _oh shit here we go_ —

________________________________________________

All around him, mummified priests chanted and drew closer, bowing as he strained in vain against his bonds. His heart pounded in his chest and breathing turned shallow as he spotted Imhotep in his peripheral approach him, black _Book of the Dead_ in hand. The mummy reached a hand out and reverently passed a hand over the face of the body next to him. 

_“Metjen…”_

With his star key, he clicked the book open to a seemingly hidden page, one Enjolras had not seen when he had first looked upon the book. Head spinning, he realized the page the mummy had turned to had been locked away, and could only be accessed if the key had been used. 

_But why was it locked away?_

_He has chosen you to be the body needed to regenerate Metjen._

As the realization dawned on him, he screamed and renewed his struggle against the chains that held him in place.

“GRANTAIRE! COURFEYRAC! HELP!”

________________________________________________

“Come on come on come on, where the hell is the statue?” he yelled in frustration.

Running in front of him, Jehan turned around and snapped, “Be patient, Grantaire, it’s kind of hard to look everywhere while we’re running for our lives!”

He gave them an incredulous look. “Yeah? And it’s kind of hard to be patient when we’re running for our lives!”

They rounded the corner—and all screamed when three mummies appeared.

“GET THE HELL AWAY!” Bahorel screamed as he let out three loud gunshots.

Panting, they all pushed through the mummies all struggling to rejoin themselves. Their feet pounded on the ground of the pyramid, and when, _when_ would they find it, _when_ —

“There!” Courfeyrac wheezed. “There it is!”

They raced up to a black statue of a man with the head of a falcon.

“Ah, Horus old friend, how we’ve all missed you,” Courfeyrac panted as they staggered to a stop. 

“How do we open it?” Combeferre hissed as Bahorel began to rummage through his pockets. He pulled out a stick of dynamite and a match. Feuilly looked at him as if he was insane. 

“Do you always carry that around?” he asked incredulously. 

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “I brought it here, I don’t carry around dynamite just for the hell of it, although after this I might—”

“Just give me the dynamite!” Grantaire snapped as he doubled over to catch his breath.

Bahorel shoved the stick in his hands, while Jehan nervously shot quick glances to the entrance behind them. “Do it now, hurry up!”

Taking the match and seeing no better alternative, Grantaire swiped it across Bahorel’s stubbled cheek to gain friction and light it up. Bahorel yelped indignantly, but before he had the chance to protest, Grantaire lit the fuse of the dynamite, threw it at the statue, and screamed, “Hit the floor!”

They all leaped away from the statue and crashed to the ground, their arms above their heads as smoke filled the room and a blast went off that was sure to take years off of Grantaire’s ability to hear properly. 

________________________________________________

Imhotep’s chanting grew louder; Enjolras watched fearfully as a swirling black mist materialized around him, travelling past his body and immersing itself into the mummy lying next to him. 

_No no no no no no._

Every muscle in his body seized up in sheer terror as a shrill shriek pierced the air like a scythe. 

_“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!”_

The body beside him jolted with life, twitching and convulsing. It seemed the spell had worked then. 

________________________________________________

Grantaire had thought that with three of them all desperately digging at the seams of secret compartment that was apparently very real (Grantaire _hadn't_ doubted Enjolras' words—he had _not_ ) they would have breached it by now and gotten their hands on the _Book of Amun-Ra_ , but whatever it is that the Egyptians back however many years ago Enjolras had said used, it wouldn't give away easily, and it frustrated Grantaire because _goddammit they were running out of time they weren't working fast enough Enjolras still wasn't here,_ and it seemed the sentiment was echoed too in Combeferre and _especially_ in Courfeyrac, who was clawing at the compartment with a viciousness Grantaire hadn't seen in him before. 

The rest stood with their guns drawn, all shooting uneasy glances to the caved-in first entrance point they came into the room through, now thoroughly covered up by debris fallen from the ceiling as a result of the explosion. No one could seem to decide whether this was a good thing--on one hand, it meant there was no possibility of any mummies getting through from that side. On the other, it left them with only one way to go, into a dark corridor… 

Well, if it was for Enjolras, then surely he could endure. 

_Focus!_

A loud shriek in their only possible direction of exit forced the hairs on Grantaire’s neck to stand on end as it wormed its way through his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Glancing hurriedly in its direction, he felt his head forced down once more.

“You guys keep digging!” Feuilly yelled as he, Bahorel, and even Jehan drew their weapons. They headed off, guns blazing in the direction of where a horde of mummies were now trying to make their way through to them. 

Grantaire shook his head. “These guys just don’t quit.”

“Combeferre I’ve almost got it!” Courfeyrac groaned. Grantaire whipped his head to see him pulling with all his strength at the last of the seams. Flocking to his side, Combeferre and Grantaire joined in his efforts, all sensing a foreboding sense of thrill when they felt something pull, something about to _give--_

The world around him suddenly spun in motion as he felt himself tugged away from the compartment and hauled to the ground, fear crawling its way up his spine because _what the hell was that on his ankle._

“Shit shit shit!” He tried scurrying away, but was tugged back down with a surprising amount of force by a skeletal hand seemingly having popped up from the ground and latched itself around his ankle. 

As he toppled once more to the ground, several more skeletal hands all burst from the ground, a few wrapping themselves around Combeferre’s wrists, dragging him away from the compartment, and one grabbing Courfeyrac by the throat. 

Grantaire thrashed about with the hand, then released a shriek when a few more popped out--but then this time emerging in full as mummies. _Straining_ his left hand for his pistol, he aimed a bullet for the hand around his ankle, and scurried back when it finally loosened, taking a moment to breathe. 

_BAM!_

The world went rolling once more as a mummy slammed into his side. He choked and brought a hand up to defend himself when he felt its hands claw at his face. With as much force as he could muster, he threw it aside, leaping forwards for the compartment that was now seemingly abandoned as Combeferre and Courfeyrac grappled with the mummies thrashing with them. The breath knocked out of him as he felt himself yanked backwards before his hands could close once more over the seams of the flap holding the secret compartment shut. He fell with a groan hard on the ground, struggling to break free of the iron grasp the mummy standing over him had on his ankles. In horror, he watched as one of the mummies made its way towards the secret compartment, ready to take what they had fought so hard to get to. 

_Fuck, no!_

Struggling, he couldn’t do much else but watch as the mummy closed its hands over the seam. On the floor near him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac still wrestled in the grips of the hellish beasts. The mummy heaved and gave a great tug--

_BAM!_

Four horrific shrill shrieks pierced the air as the flap tore off and a burst of some sort of a liquid sprayed all four of the mummies all up, effectively _melting_ them.

_Seems the second American expedition had a bit of a misadventure of their own today. Three of their diggers were killed._

_How?_

_Salt acid. Pressurized salt acid. Some sort of ancient booby trap, apparently._

Instantly, he felt the grip around his ankles loosen, and over by the side, Courfeyrac gasped and coughed for air. 

________________________________________________

Now _this_ . _This_ was a solid investment. 

Well it seems at least some good came out of this disastrous trip. Thenardier wheezed as he staggered out of the pyramid and into broad daylight, his bag now jingling with items of precious gold and jewels. He collapsed against a camel, out of breath. This was it. This would make him a fortune. Just a handful of this, and he would never have to steal or con another man again… Well, he wouldn’t have to if he didn’t want to. That didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t want to.

Glancing down at his sack, he smiled gleefully at the fortune inside. Evidently this was enough. There was no need to journey back into the pyramid once more and fill a second bag with even more. Absolutely no need.

Right?

________________________________________________

Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan staggered back into the room, all panting, and Bahorel sporting a nasty gash across his arm.

Grantaire glanced up at them and panted out, “How long have we got?”

Jehan dropped to his side. “Not long enough. Hurry the hell up and get the book!”

With their help, Grantaire reached inside the compartment hidden beneath the statue and pulled out an ornately decorated jeweled chest. Courfeyrac ripped off the lid, and Grantaire reached inside. 

With wide eyes, he pulled out a leather sack, and with even wider eyes, he reached inside the sack and pulled out a book—the heaviest book he had ever laid his hands on in his life-- and there was a reasonable explanation for why it was so, the book was made of--

“Sweet Jesus,” Bahorel whispered in awe. “It really is made of solid gold then.” 

As the _Book of Amun-Ra_ bathed the room in both wonder and a golden light alike, they all lost themselves for a second, just one, until a loud shriek brought reality crashing back on them. 

“Shit!” 

Feuilly groaned. “Not this again.”

Indeed. _Not this again._ Because Grantaire didn’t _have_ time for this again. Not when he finally got his hands on the golden _Book of Amun-Ra_ , not when he finally had what he needed to get Enjolras back. 

They all stood and faced the entryway grimly. There was no way to go, and the horde of mummies kept growing until they finally all screamed and charged inside. Bahorel swore and let out a barrage of bullets. Grantaire drew his gun once more, but Jehan shoved him aside. 

“You three!” they panted, their hair wild. “You three go get Enjolras!” 

He shared a glance with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “What about you rest?”

“Oh we’ll manage!” Jehan exclaimed impatiently. “Now go!” 

Grantaire opened his mouth to scream back, _how?_ but stopped as the floor shook and a blast coming from Bahorel’s lit stick of dynamite knocked them all to the ground. The caved in entrance was blown back and cleared, now open once more. Courfeyrac gasped and scrambled to pick up the precious book now lying on the floor.

“Go help Enjolras!” Feuilly turned back briefly and yelled. “Go!” 

Tripping over himself, he grabbed Courfeyrac by the hand, who in turn grabbed Combeferre’s hand, and together they all raced out the room, leaving behind Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan, who all continued to yell and fire, and now instead searching out the chamber in which Enjolras was being held. 

________________________________________________

Screaming, he renewed his violent struggle against his bonds, writhing on the tabletop as he sent out a silent prayer.

_Where is everyone? Why am I alone? Grantaire where are you? Please help me. You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone again._

_“With your death, Metjen shall live, and I will be invincible!”_

He tossed his head to the left to see Imhotep tower over him, blade in hand. 

_I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die._ His heart raced in his chest as his chest heaved with his rapid breaths.

_You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone again._

_THUMP._

_THUMP._

_THUMP._

Inside his chest, his heart jackhammered and his breathing elevated to the point of hyperventilation; vaguely, his stomach stirred with nausea. As he let out one last helpless scream, Imhotep raised his blade and plunged the tip towards Enjolras’ heart.

His rebellion against the chains that held him captive went slack. Enjolras’ body went limp on the table as his vision was consumed with an endless darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely too happy with how the chapter turned out :/
> 
> Hopefully the last chapter will be up by Saturday. Also, I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter...
> 
> Updates are every Saturday, stick around! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> OKAY, so, first off, I apologize for the delay in updating this last chapter. So, after multiple delays in updating this fic throughout these months, I have FINALLY reached the end of uploading. Finally. 
> 
> So, I've realized that for those of you who haven't actually watched the original movie, I've neglected to provide you with a description of what Imhotep--the mummy--looks like, and that's completely my fault, and now I'm really worried what you guys are picturing in your head when you see his name appear up on the page. So, HE LOOKS HUMAN. HE DOES NOT APPEAR LIKE A CRUMBLING, WRAPPED UP MUMMY. As long as your envisioning him as some human, that's fine, but for those of you who are curious,  this is what he looks like
> 
> Also, @cumbercookiebatchs on tumblr made some AMAZING art for this fic that you can find here
> 
> And now, for the last time--
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters all belong to Les Miserables, with the exception of one belonging to The Mummy (1999). The plot and half of the dialogue belongs to The Mummy (1999.)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

“I’VE FOUND IT, ENJOLRAS! I’VE FOUND IT!” 

Grantaire watched from the safety of the shadows as Courfeyrac burst into the room, at the top of the staircase at the opposite end of from where he was crouched behind a boulder, waving around the golden  _ Book of Amun-Ra  _ in his hands, Combeferre hot on his heels, right in the nick of time. Imhotep halted just as the tip of his blade would’ve torn through Enjolras’ flesh and rendered him… 

He shook his head frantically. No. He would not think about associating the d-word anywhere near Enjolras’ name. On the table, Enjolras laid still, seemingly having lost consciousness out of fear. Shaking off the urge to simply run to his side, and run his sword through Imhotep right then and there, Grantaire slowly drew his blade as the Mummy turned to look at Courfeyrac standing perched on a ledge far above them. Abandoning his blade and post over Enjolras, Imhotep quietly muttered and began to ascend the stairs. 

“OH SHIT!” Courfeyrac and Combeferre swivelled on their heels and turned to run down the hall. Seizing his chance, Grantaire stalked closer towards the golden figure lying shackled on the table, surrounded on all sides by Imhotep's priests, breaking into a run as he leapt into the air and brought the sword down upon the left chain encircling Enjolras’ wrist, the metal bursting apart with a loud  _ bam! _ Inwardly, he winced as he remembered the fact that Enjolras' left wrist was still healing. 

A screech from behind had him swivelling on his heel and swinging his sword blindly. A burst of dust and a scream informed him that his sword had hit its mark as one of the priests crumpled to the ground, body sawed in half. He panted as he exerted every last bit of energy into his swings. The priests, evidently, would be having none of his behaviour, and they all charged at him at once.

_ Shit. Well, let’s do this then. _

Twisting on his heel, he sliced his blade through another priest, doubling over in a coughing fit when it burst into dust all over him. But he didn't have much time to recover as the mummies kept coming. Swinging every-which-way, he hacked and sliced and thrust and _ damn were his eyes starting to burn from all this dust— _

Something wrapped around his neck as his breath supply cut off, drawing a choke from him, allowing the rest of the mummies to circle closer. Wildly, he swung with his free hand and grappled with what looked like an arm around his neck. Grunting, he pried the arm off, spinning and throwing the mummy far from him. With his right he swung and his left he curled into a fist, throwing as powerful a punch he could muster in his situation. From the side, something gripped him, and he delivered a swift kick, sending yet another priest hurtling through the air, taking care of most of the mummies for now and  _ why the fuck were there so many, his arms were beginning to tire and there were still so many, just keep swinging and swinging and swinging and— _

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

_ ENJOLRAS! _

The sound of rattling chains and a distinctly human scream had him turning around urgently as he slashed his blade through a priest wrestling with Enjolras atop the table. Enjolras looked at him frantically while he strained against the binds that still cuffed him by his right.

"Grantaire! Get these things off me!" He gave Enjolras a dashing smile as he gestured to their surroundings, the priest mummies seemingly taken care of. 

"It's okay, Enjolras, don't panic. Here," he raised his blade, ready to strike at the metal, leaning forward, when something dusty and crumbly and  _ definitely not human  _ grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him down to the ground, eliciting a yelp of surprise from his lips and causing him to drop his sword with a clang.

"Grantaire!"

He rolled on his back and glanced down to see an undead priest pull at him by the legs.  _ Why won't these damn things just die?  _

His back flared up with pain as the priest yanked harshly on him. To his side he could spot his sword, right by his head. Flinging out a hand, he found that he  _ couldn’t reach it, goddamnit, it was so close, just out of reach! _

Grunting, he stuck out his arms once more, straining for the blade. Above him, Enjolras continued his battle against his chains. 

“Shit!” panted Enjolras. “Shit! Grantaire!”

He really did want to offer up some reassurance but instead let out a strangled gasp as another mummy dove forward while he tried to sit up and wrapped its arms around his, choking him once more. Kicking his legs and throwing his arms behind to try and throw off the priest choking him, he thrashed about, red faced and gasping, trying to breathe, and trying to these creatures from fucking hell off of him. 

Still struggling above, Enjolras gasped, “Oh _ — _ Oh shit! Grantaire!” 

Grantaire would have really liked to snap at Enjolras that he had already said that, but then he raised his head and he felt the blood drain from his face as he saw what Enjolras was gasping at. 

_ Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.  _

At the sight of yet another priest approaching _ —why were there so many?— _ this one with a large stone tablet raised up in its arms that Grantaire had absolutely no need of wondering what it would be used for, he doubled the strength with which he thrashed, kicking his legs with a new force. Forgoing the fight with the mummy that caught him in a chokehold and instead deciding to try and breathe through his chokes, he strained and strained his arm to the point that he thought he would pull a muscle, trying to reach his sword and  _ goddamnit it was so close, so goddamn close, all he needed was a—a—anything, anything that would give him that one extra inch— _

And there it was! He never thought he would be grateful for it, but he was really feeling glad when a chopped off mummy hand started inching its way towards his sword, no doubt hoping to grab it. 

The hand wormed its way closer. All Grantaire had to do was reach for it, wait and reach, and try to just breathe, he was feeling so dangerously  _ faint,  _ and in his peripheral, the mummy wielding the tablet was getting closer and closer _ — _

The world was starting to go hazy as he let out an anguished cry. He had to  _ breathe,  _ he was still writhing on the ground, the two mummies keeping their strong, unrelenting grip on his legs and his head. In the distance, gunshots rang out, there was the sound of footsteps pounding on the ground _ —Combeferre and Courfeyrac must have been chased back into the chamber— _ and Enjolras was still trying to pull free, letting out frustrated cries, one that cut off into scream _ — _ “GRANTAIRE!”

The mummy above him raised the tablet, and began to swing its arms down to bring the tablet to a crash over his head, but Grantaire, choking for air, his muscles beginning to tire still waited that one last second and _ — _

The chopped mummy hand dove for the hilt of his sword and grasped its hand around it and as it did, Grantaire let out one last burst of energy as he strained once more and grabbed the mummy hand by the forearm and used it to turn and slice quick and clean through the mummy holding the tablet. With a great shriek, the priest fell backwards, taking the tablet with him and crushing himself rather than Grantaire. 

________________________________________________

“Enjolras what do I do?” Courfeyrac yelled frantically as he and Combeferre darted across the room, pursued by the creature. 

From where he was still bound in chains, his brother strained against his shackles while crying, “Open the book, Courfeyrac! Open the book! That’s the only way to kill him!”

Courfeyrac glanced down at the book in his hands.  _ Open the book?  _ he thought wildly. Did Enjolras really think he was stupid enough to not attempt that before? Of course he tried to open the book, but it wouldn’t open to any of the pages he had seen the Mummy use before. He had been desperately trying to pry the book open to the part of it they needed. What did he  _ think  _ he had been doing all this time?

“I can’t! It won’t open to that part of it!” he yelled. 

“That’s because you need the key!” Enjolras called back from where he was still struggling with his chains.

The mummy, having heard, grinned and took the key from around his neck _ —the puzzle box! Of course it was the puzzle box!— _ and stuffed it in his pocket.

Well that complicated matters.

________________________________________________

Enjolras watched as Grantaire groaned where he was on the ground. 

“Grantaire! Grantaire!” he rattled his chains once more in reminder, watching in panic as Combeferre let out another three bursts of gunfire, blowing the priests that stood in there way while he and Courfeyrac ran, pursued by Imhotep.

Grantaire let out a gasp, as if he suddenly remembered something very important. “Enjolras!”

Shaking his head frantically, he responded, “Yes, it’s me, now get me out of this thing!”

Leaping to his feet, Grantaire raised his sword and finally, finally, he brought it down the shackles encircling his right wrist. The metal burst apart, finally relieving his wrist of the pressure, but unfortunately, still marking it up in a bruised purple. 

With two hands on his waist, Grantaire lifted him off the table and back down to the ground, giving him a second to readjust being back on his feet before taking him by the wrist and tugging him to run. 

While they too broke out in a run towards where his brother and the Professor seemed to be heading, he yelled, "Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Read the inscription on the book!"

"What!" Courf screamed as he veered left out of the way of another priest.

_ BANG!  _

_ BANG! _

_ BANG! _

"The inscription on the cover! Read it!"

The sound of his voice echoing through the chamber looked to be both good news and bad news as Imhotep, having heard, turned away from Courfeyrac and Combeferre leaving them to grapple with and inspect the hieratics without as much worry, but also turning his gaze towards where Enjolras and Grantaire now stood, the sacrifice he was going to use to bring back his dead lover now free. 

“Well this just keeps getting better and better,” Grantaire muttered as he tugged once more on his hand and forced them into a run away from where Imhotep was now stalking towards them.

________________________________________________

“Hurry the fuck up, Courfeyrac!” Combeferre hissed frantically. 

“I’m reading, I’m reading!” he hissed back, equally as panicked. 

While his eyes remained firmly glued to the cover of the book in front of him, he could hear ragged breaths, pounding footfall, and rapid gunshots as Enjolras and Grantaire both ran from the Mummy. 

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre urged again.

“Yes I know!” he snapped. 

_ BANG _

_ BANG  _

_ BANG! _

“STAY THE HELL BACK, BUDDY!”

_ BANG! _

_ BANG!  _

_ BANG! _

Somewhere in the distance, three shrill shrieks sounded themselves, and Courfeyrac could barely hear his own thoughts over his erratic heartbeat and heavy breaths. 

“Uh, uh,” he muttered frantically, trying to decipher the hieratics. 

“KEEP RUNNING!”

“Courfeyrac!” 

Somewhere in the distance, Enjolras screamed, and Courfeyrac’s heart leaped in his throat as his brain raced twice as fast to translate. 

_ “Rash — rasheem — rasheem ulla…”  _

“ENJOLRAS, NO!”   


“GRANTAIRE!”

_ BANG! _

_ BANG! _

_ BANG! _

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre screamed this time. He dared a quick glance up as Combeferre tugged on his hand and hurled him to the side, where a priest was now flying through the air, having dove for him. Raising his hand fast, Combeferre spun his pistol and fired. The priest screamed and burst into dust. 

With new panic, Courfeyrac glanced back at the last bit of the hieratic. 

Enjolras screamed again, this time more panicked and fearful, and Courfeyrac, having finally understood the words, bellowed, _“Rasheem ulla cashka!”_

________________________________________________

Crying out, Enjolras struggled against the grip of the Mummy, screaming as Imhotep gave a large pull and he felt himself ripped away from Grantaire.

_ “Rasheem ulla cashka!”  _

The Mummy’s grip slackened on his wrist as he spun, surprised at the spell Courfeyrac just cast. Seizing his chance, he ripped free of the creature’s hold and dashed back to where Grantaire now shoved him behind him and opened up his gun, firing while knowing the fact that it still wouldn’t do anything. The Mummy turned back to them, and Grantaire took hold of his hand once more and they broke out into a run. 

Panting, Enjolras turned his head back _ — _

But the Mummy wasn’t chasing them. He wasn’t moving at all. Instead, his eyes were fixed to the golden gates where Courfeyrac had entered from, and a moment later, when Grantaire tugged on his wrist  _ hard  _ to get him to stop and flung him behind him, he could see why.

The ground beneath them shook with a series of tremors as the golden doors burst open and ten new mummies _ — _ these ones evidently soldiers of the pharaoh, all armed with wickedly glinting spears and scythes _ — _ all marched inside the room.

Daring a glance back at the Mummy, Enjolras could see a small smile brew on his face. 

In front of him, Grantaire lifted his sword up cautiously. 

“You know,” he muttered to him, “I’ve found it’s always best to brace yourself for the worst possible outcome so you don’t end up disappointed by our shitty world. But this,” he gestured with his sword to the rank standing a few feet in front of them. “This is just ridiculous.” 

Without taking his eyes off the soldiers, Enjolras called out, “Do something, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire began to back them up away slowly. 

From where he stood with Combeferre, his brother called back incredulously, “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he grit out. “You can command them.” He dared a glance to the corner where Courfeyrac watched him with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“You have got to be joking,” he said, shaking his head. Enjolras resisted the urge to let out a noise of frustration. 

“Finish the inscription on the cover, genius. Then you can control them.”

Pursing his lips, Courfeyrac nodded his lips. “Right. Right.” In his peripheral, Combeferre took Courfeyrac by the hand again. They rounded the corner once more as Courfeyrac began to try and read again. 

Both he and Grantaire continued to back away slowly, fearful that any sudden movement may set the rank of soldiers after them. A little away from them, Imhotep too remained quiet and unmoving. 

Then the world around Enjolras spun in blurry motion as Grantaire yelped and he felt his body slammed to the ground by a mummy, no not any mummy, the mummy of… 

The mummy of Imhotep's beloved, who wielded a blade sharp enough to plunge into his heart and finish the job. Hurriedly, he scampered back as the Mummy's beloved _ — _ Metjen _ — _ towered over him, then stumbled up on his feet and broke out into a dash, his feet pounding the ground beneath him and his blood rushing in his ears. Behind him, Metjen let out a shrill shriek and gave chase, his blade held high in the air.

________________________________________________

"Shit! Enjolras!” Grantaire made to move towards him, but stopped in his tracks when Imhotep chanted something in Ancient Egyptian to the soldiers, sharply inclining his head towards _ — _

Towards Grantaire. 

Oh fuck. Of all people to gain control of the soldiers. 

What was Courfeyrac  _ doing?  _

With wide eyes, he watched as the soldiers all rounded on him, their blades glinting menacingly.

Never one to be outdone, he raised his own sword and screamed out, "AHHHHHHH!"

The mummy soldiers peered back at him, and let out their own, "AHHHHHHHH!" 

Shit. Grantaire was in no mood to do this.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "Nuh-uh," turned, and bolted like mad away. Behind him, the ten soldiers all let out ear-grating battle cries, and, their bones rattling and weapons clanging, began to chase after him. 

________________________________________________

He pushed himself harder and harder and  _ harder,  _ and yet it seemed as if Metjen was only gaining on him. Enjolras pushed off of pillars and rounded corners, constantly checking back and always seeing Metjen right there behind him, somehow always aware of where Enjolras was in this maze of pillars and pathways. It was a deadly game of hide-and-seek, and Enjolras was for sure losing, and he knew that if he was caught, what waited for him was not a simple round of Courfeyrac's tickles. 

His heart pounded in his ears as he stumbled around another corner, head beginning to feel faint from all his running. Breathing raggedly, he turned to see if Metjen was still behind him. When Enjolras saw nothing there, he brought himself to a halt and doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath. A blade at the tip of his shoulder had him gasping once more, and, without thinking too much about it, he pulled away quick and dove away, breaking into a dead sprint, ignoring the sear of pain as the movement caused the tip of the blade to slice across his shoulder and set Metjen behind him once more. 

Head spinning, he screamed, "Courfeyrac! Finish the inscription already!" 

________________________________________________

There! There, a rope and a dead weight! If he latched on and cut it, he could _ — _

A burst of pain coursed through his veins and he let out a shout when he felt a sword slash him across his back. Shit. The soldiers were getting closer, their swords tips were right at his back.

He dashed across a shallow puddle of water, boots splashing and threatening to make him slip and fall. Agony laced through his skin once more as he felt a second slash criss-crossing with the first cut itself down his back as a soldier screamed in victory, but jokes on them because Grantaire was close, so close,  _ almost there— _

Diving for the rope, he struck it and felt the wind in his hair as the rope shot him up sharply in the air away from the soldiers, and on the other end, the dead weight sacks of sand landed on one of the mummy soldiers. 

Swinging wildly in the air, he let go and landed on the other side of the room, his feet screaming when he crashed on the ground. He had no time to complain about it, though, as he pushed himself to run towards the doorway, his sword still in hand. He ran through the opening.

And promptly turned back, screaming and bolting inside the room once more as he was chased by another five mummy soldiers all waving their weapons at him and shrieking. He scampered down the stairs, not daring to slow himself down by glancing behind him, jumping down the last five, raising his sword in caution, and only then stopping to check behind himself. 

The soldiers were gone. He let out a sigh of relief and turned once more. 

And then he screamed again. As he found himself face-to-face with three of the soldiers. The first raised his scythe and brought it down. On instinct, he raised his own sword to parry the strike, and sent their blades crashing with sparks. The first mummy continued to rain down blow after blow, and Grantaire continued to parry. A second attacked him from the side, and he delivered a swift kick to its crumbling ribs. He twisted his sword upwards, sending the first's scythe clanging to the ground, and taking advantage of the moment, he swiped his sword through the mummy, then delivering a swift punch to the last when he let out a ferocious roar and dove for him. The mummy burst apart into dust, and he broke out into a coughing fit.

When he straightened back up, he sighed in equal parts annoyance and despair. 

There were more. 

Of course there were more.

________________________________________________

Courfeyrac panted as Combeferre continued to pull him around corners, away from the action, and away from Imhotep, who seemed to have set his sights on the golden B _ ook of Amun-Ra  _ once more. When they rounded the next pillar, he tugged hard on Combeferre’s hand; he couldn’t do this _ — _ it was too difficult to run and try and translate at the same time. 

Combeferre crashed into him at the force of his tug, shooting out a hand to steady Courfeyrac before he tumbled to the ground. He bent over, coughing.

“What, what is it?” he wheezed out. 

Courfeyrac ran a panicked hand through his curls. “I can’t figure out this last symbol,” he confessed, frustrated. 

Gasping for breath, Combeferre gestured for him to hand back the book. “Let me see.” 

Combeferre squinted at the book for a long while. Impatient, Courfeyrac turned his head to look around the corner, where Grantaire clashed swords with an army of mummy soldiers that only seemed to grow. “Any time now, Combeferre!” 

“I _ — _ I _ — _ ”

“COURFEYRAC HURRY!” Enjolras screamed. 

Heart in his throat, he ripped the book back from Combeferre, ignoring his affronted look, and instead yelled out, “I CAN’T FIGURE OUT THIS LAST SYMBOL!”

Swords clanged, feet pounded against the ground, mummies shrieked, and, and, maybe Enjolras didn’t hear him, shit, he would have to _ — _

“WHAT DOES IT _ — _ SHIT! _ — _ WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE?”

________________________________________________

Where the ever loving FUCK was Courferyac? 

Enjolras pushed off another wall, breathing heavy, desperate to get that one extra foot, _ that one last extra foot  _ that would put him too beyond reach for Metjen to catch up. At this point, he felt like he was going to throw up from how hard and how long he had been running. The heat of the exercise made his surroundings feel fuzzy; in the distance, he could hear Grantaire yelling out various profanities as he sliced through mummy after mummy and parried with scythe after scythe, but it was a background noise, back in his head as the only sound he could really hear was his heavy breathing, and the only thought he allowed to cross his mind was  _ run run run.  _

He heaved for breath as he pushed onwards; the entire place was beginning to muddle in a blur, it sounded as if he was going underwater _ — _

Then ringing clear as day as if he broke the surface of the sea and could hear  _ clearly— _

“I CAN’T FIGURE OUT THIS LAST SYMBOL!”

The last symbol! He was at the end of the inscription! If he could just figure that out, well, it wouldn’t stop Imhotep just yet, but at least it would _ — _

“WHAT DOES IT _ — _ ” he tripped up and sent himself sprawling to the ground, “SHIT! _ — _ ” stumbling back up to his feet frantically, he cried out, “WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE?” He dared a glance back at where Metjen would have been chasing him, had he been there, and despite the fact that he felt he would retch, he let out a little breathless laugh, because he was gone, he wasn’t there anymore, he _ — _

He gasped and choked as he ran straight into Metjen’s outstretched hand, which clamped tightly around his throat. Stumbling back from the force with which Metjen pushed him back against the pillar behind him and squeezed tighter, his other hand trying to force a wickedly sharp dagger into his face. He clawed at the hand around his neck, choking and desperately gasping for breath while wrapping a hand around the wrist of Metjen’s left, straining to keep the dagger from ripping through him.

“COURFEYRAC!” he choked out.

________________________________________________

Grantaire clashed weapons with the mummy soldier in front of him, screaming as he parried and thrusted and sliced.

“SHIT! FUCK! CRAP! WHY WON’T YOU AND YOUR LOSER FRIENDS GODDAMN DIE!”

The mummy in front of him brought his scythe across his chest, and he felt his torso light on fire as the tip of the blade sliced across and left a (thankfully shallow) red gash. Grunting loudly in pain, he raised his boot and kicked at the priest’s middle. When the soldier doubled over in pain, he raised his sword, feeling it stick for a moment in something behind him, something that shrieked in pain and burst into dust, covering him in ash, then bringing the sword violently down on the head of the mummy in front. It shrieked in pain and burst. Breathless, he had no time to rest as he spun on his heel and raised his sword to defend against another blow from another priest that struck at him from his side. He gasped for breath as he clanged his sword against another blow, then twisting his blade in hopes of carrying the blade out of the soldier’s hands. Instead, the soldier clamped on tight to its weapon, sending Grantaire spinning around it with the force with which he had attempted the parry. 

________________________________________________

When Enjolras screamed for him, Courfeyrac set out to quickly describe the symbol. “It’s _ — _ it’s like, a _ — _ a bird!” he called back. 

He felt the book ripped out of his hands, and this time he gave Combeferre an affronted look. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Combeferre corrected, “It’s a stork, Enjolras!”

________________________________________________

From somewhere around the corner of the room by the staircase, Grantaire heard Combeferre call out, “It’s a stork, Enjolras!” and while he would love to decipher what the hell he was talking about, he had more pressing issues. 

Namely, this soldier that seemed twice more skilled than the rest. 

The soldier let out a ferocious roar and brought his scythe down with a force Grantaire had not yet seen, and as he raised his sword over and over to block the attacks, he felt himself pushed back further and further. Grunting, he raised his sword one more time when the mummy soldier heaved his scythe down so violently it knocked Grantaire backwards, off his feet and to the ground, a pillar to his back. He groaned when he crashed to the hard ground, and let out a yell as the soldier lifted his scythe directly over his middle, beginning to bring his arm back down to deliver a sharp stab to his chest, but a bright flame next to him caught his eye and there _ — _ !

He mustered whatever strength he had left in his muscles and rolled to the side as the blade came down and stuck itself in the ground. Frantically, he grabbed at the flaming torch lying next to him, and thrust it up at the soldier towering above above him, effectively lighting the bastard on fire, allowing Grantaire the time to leap to his feet and kick him to the ground, into a puddle of water, where he brought down his sword, hacking it to bits before spinning once more and  slicing through the new mob coming his way. 

________________________________________________

Enjolras felt his vision start to go blurry as he clawed desperately at the hand around his throat. Dear God if he didn’t get some air, just one gulp, _ he needed to breathe so bad— _

“It’s a stork, Enjolras!”

Combeferre’s voice snapped through his haze. A stork? The symbol was a stork? 

Renewing his violent struggle against the body holding him captive and pushing back against the hand hand inching the dagger closer and closer to his face, he searched his brain for the translation of the symbol of a stork, and with his final bit of breath, choked out, “Ah---Ah-- _Ahmenophous!”_

________________________________________________

Courfeyrac squinted closer at the symbol, then grinned, looking back up at Combeferre. “Ah yes, I see.”

Combeferre glared at him.

________________________________________________

Grantaire backed up the staircase, climbing as he sliced through each of the mummies fighting their way up to him, only to be slashed and kicked back down. Kicking at his left, he spun to his right and made a quick slice, then turning back and thrusting through the middle of a third wielding a spear. Two shrieks behind him had him turning to look up the staircase when he felt his footing knocked off as he tumbled down the stairs, two of the mummies having kicked him down, his sword flying out of his hands and down the steps with him, landing far from his reach. He yelled out in pain as the world rapidly spun around him while he continued to tumble down, each step sharply jabbing him in the gut until he came to a stop on the ground. In front of him, the two soldiers were quickly joined by another two, all four wielding spears and marching straight for him. Hurriedly, he scurried backwards on his palms, but his hands gave out and he fell back just as the soldiers reached him, all thrusting their spear tips right down and stabbing through his _ — _

________________________________________________

“FINISH THE INSCRIPTION, COURFEYRAC!” Combeferre screamed, as he brought him out the corner, then screamed once more when he saw Imhotep heading right there way.

Fumbling with the book, Courfeyrac bellowed, “Uh _ — _ uh _ — HOOTASH IM AHMENOPHOUS!” _

Shocked, Imhotep spun on his heel and turned his gaze to where Grantaire lay on the ground, towered over by four soldiers. 

________________________________________________

Grantaire panted, eyes squeezed shut, and…

And why didn’t he feel any agonizing pain? Why didn’t he feel his body be torn to shreds? 

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, then widened them when he saw the mummy soldiers completely still, not moving their blades a single inch forwards, that once inch enough to pierce through Grantaire’s cheek, his stomach, his right eye and his hea _ — _

No thinking like that. No moving. He didn’t dare even breathe in fear of setting the soldiers in motion again. 

A moment of silence passed.

Then, as quick as they had been to attack Grantaire, they withdrew their weapons away from him, and instead turned a different direction.

From the corner where he stood, Imhotep repeatedly yelled the same words at the soldiers, over and over to no avail, and even Grantaire, who still couldn’t understand a single word of spells and enchantments, could tell that he was trying to command them to kill him, but to no luck. 

Despite everything, Grantaire allowed himself a small smile. 

Imhotep no longer controlled the soldiers. 

________________________________________________

_ “HOOTASH IM AHMENOPHOUS!” _

Was that Courfeyrac? Did he finish the inscription then? How very nice. 

Enjolras felt his eyes start to slip close. Black spots began to dance in front of his vision as he felt the strength in his arms begin to dwindle. He gave up trying to paw at the hand around his throat, and felt his hand around Metjen’s wrist begin to loosen, and the blade inch dangerously forward.

_ “FAKUSHKA METJEN!” _

In the background, he thought he could hear Imhotep scream out “METJEN!” Enjolras’ head lolled back and he let out one last desperate choke, one last desperate gasp for air, his head spun, his vision started to fade _ — _

And then he was being hurled to the side, the pressure off his throat, and Enjolras collapsed to the ground and gasped for breath, heaving in as much air as he could, retching and coughing, eyes watering as he watched Metjen back up away from where a troop of four soldiers marched towards the Mummy’s beloved, their blades all raised. Outnumbered, Metjen could only raise his own dagger feebly. 

________________________________________________

Despite the fact that the Mummy’s lover _ — _ Metjen, or whatever it was Enjolras had said his name was _ — _ was one of the bad guys, Courfeyrac couldn’t help but recoil as he watched the soldiers march on him, knowing full well what was about to happen. But right before, the Mummy turned towards him and Combeferre. 

_ “Give me that book!”  _ The Mummy roared out in Ancient Egyptian as he stalked closer. 

Dropping the book in terror, he and Combeferre backed up against the wall, their eyes fixed firmly on Imhotep, but before he could reach him, the shrill shriek of who could only be Metjen pierced through the air, making Imhotep spin with panic in his eyes as he tried to stumble closer to his beloved, but too little, too late. 

________________________________________________

Despite all the violence he had seen today, Enjolras still couldn’t help but flinch as he watched the soldiers surround their blades and begin to hack Metjen to shreds. The first plunged its pear into his heart, then when Metjen turned, the second sliced its scythe through his middle, leaving the third to kick the body to the ground and the fourth to mercilessly hack at it until nothing remained but a horrific pile of shreds. 

________________________________________________

At the sight of his lover hacked to death on his command, the Mummy whirled back around to Courfeyrac, his eyes burning with a fiery rage that had Courfeyrac feeling as if he truly were on fire. He moved once more towards, them, this time quicker than ever, and Combeferre barely had the time to raise his gun and fire before Imhotep had grabbed hold of his shirt and flung him aside, sending him crashing into a pillar and slumping to the ground with a pained moan. 

Terrified out of his mind, Courfeyrac tried to stumble back, but he gasped when his back hit solid wall instead. 

The Mummy grabbed him ferociously by the throat and lifted him off the ground, drawing out a choked cry from him. 

_ “NOW YOU DIE!” _

Behind him, Courfeyrac spotted Grantaire approaching quietly, lifting up his sword, then bringing it down on the arm holding Courfeyrac up, slicing the arm clean off and allowing Courfeyrac to drop to the ground and throw the hand off, rolling away and gasping for air. 

________________________________________________

As the Mummy’s arm came sliding off, Imhotep turned to him, first glancing down at where his arm was now severed, then back at him, grabbing Grantaire by the shirt and hurling him as hard as he could away. 

Grantaire crashed to the ground, setting his entire body aflame with pain, and he let out a strangled grunt as he watched the Mummy pick up his severed arm.

________________________________________________

The Mummy bent low to grab at his detached arm, and while he kept his gaze fixed on Grantaire, Courfeyrac seized his chance, subtly surging up to the Mummy’s pocket and _ — _ pulling that same trick he did what seemed like years ago to steal from Grantaire _ — _ he snatched the key from the Mummy without garnering so much as a single glance.

The Mummy stalked closer to Grantaire, who watched with unadulterated loathing as the Mummy came closer. 

Turning his gaze away from them, Courfeyrac thrust his arm in the air, proudly displaying the star key held in his hands, and shouting, “Enjolras! I’ve got it!”

________________________________________________

Grantaire stumbled back up to his feet, matching the Mummy on the same height.

________________________________________________

Enjolras scurried up to his feet and tripped over himself running to where Courfeyrac now held both the key in his hands and was now picking up the book off the ground. 

He cast a panicked look at where Imhotep was now lifting Grantaire off his feet, fearing for his life, but also for their limited time. Over his shoulder to Grantaire, he called out, “Keep him busy!”

________________________________________________

As he felt himself fly through the air once more, Grantaire thought,  _ Really? Keep him busy?  _

When he landed hard on the ground for what must have been the hundredth time today, he grit out. “Sure. No problem.”

The Mummy approached him once more. 

________________________________________________

Enjolras ripped the key out of his brother’s hands, and twisted it viciously through the lock, opening up the hidden pages of enchantments they needed. He flipped through the pages of solid gold frantically, the book propped up on Courfeyrac's chest like a stand. 

________________________________________________

HOW MANY TIMES DID THE MUMMY THINK HE NEEDED TO BE THROWN THROUGH THE AIR AND BACK ONTO THE GROUND?

________________________________________________

“Hurry, Enjolras, hurry!” his brother urged, keeping his eyes glued to where the Mummy was making his way towards Grantaire for the last time, seemingly done playing his little game and moving in for the kill.

Enjolras’ own heart was jackrabbiting in his chest as his eyes scanned each each page, eyes wild as he looked for the correct incantation. “You’re not helping!” he replied through gritted teeth, daring a glance at Grantaire, then immediately turning his attention back to the book in front of him as his heart leaped in his throat and he searched like mad for the enchantment to save them all.

________________________________________________

Grantaire felt the Mummy lift him up one more time, his hands gripping his shirt tight, dangling him in mid-air, but this time was different. This time, he wasn't being thrown in the air. This time, Grantaire gasped as the Mummy hissed something menacing before beginning to unhinge his jaw, and Grantaire kicked his legs and thrashed about trying to free himself, knowing what was coming and _ — _

________________________________________________

"ENJOLRAS, HURRY!" Courfeyrac yelled, but Enjolras couldn't hear him over the rush of blood he felt in his ears as the adrenaline of victory coursed through his brains and he cried out, "I've got it!" 

Imhotep's jaw was getting larger and larger, and so too were Grantaire's eyes, as Imhotep began to inhale and _ — _

_"Kadeesh mal, kadeesh mal!"_ he read. Both the Mummy and Grantaire' heads whipped around to look at him as Enjolras bore his gaze directly into Imhotep's wide, fearful eyes and triumphantly finished the incantation: _"Pared oos, pared oos."_

A whinny and a horsewhip sounded, causing the Mummy to drop Grantaire to the ground and whirl around to look as the blue, shimmering spirit of Anubis, god of death came riding down in his chariot, passing through Imhotep and ripping from him his spiritual form to whisk down to the Underworld, leaving his body running after his spirit, carried far away from him, through the doorway and out of any of their reach. 

Grantaire got back on his feet and stumbled back to his side, picking up his sword once more and tucking him behind him as they all watched Anubis ride away. When Imhotep turned back to them, vengeance burning in his eyes, Grantaire glanced back down at him to glare. "I thought you said this was going to kill him!" he said, frustrated. With all three of them backed up against the wall, Grantaire saw no choice but to hold out his sword in defence as the Mummy kept walking towards them, and Grantaire's eyes went wide but determined, but Enjolras knew something he didn't, that when the Mummy finally came close and Grantaire thrust his blade through Imhotep's chest and his eyes widened, the whole reason for reading out the incantation was because now _ — _

"He is mortal," he declared quietly with a grim smile. 

Imhotep's eyes widened and a look of anguish crossed his face as he glanced down at the sword impaling and killing his now mortal body. He staggered back, off Grantaire's sword, and into a silver pool, echoing with the shrieks of the dead, swirling with their howling spirits, a one way river down to the Underworld. As he began to sink down, far below where Enjolras, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac would ever be able to reach, he began to decay once more into the crumbling, mummified state they had originally found him in that day they opened his sarcophagus. Right as he went down under completely, right as all that was left was his head, having crumbled down to the first time he had seen him in the moonlight of the passageway, Imhotep locked eyes with Enjolras and spoke clearly and crisply before his eyes melted to nothing and his head too was finally swallowed up by the shimmering river.

Without tearing his eyes off the river, he translated in a low murmur, "Death is only the beginning." 

________________________________________________

Thenardier strained under the weight of his second bag of gold. Damn it was heavy, but it would all be worth it… his mouth was already watering at the thought of his first bag of gold waiting for him outside, tied on his camel. 

Groaning, he leaned up against a wall, resting his heavy bag on some sort of a plank sticking out of the wall. He leaned his head back to catch his breath when a creak had him turning back to see the gold moving the plank downward. No, wait, not plank… 

As the ground beneath him began to shake and the walls around him started to sink down as if to  _ close,  _ it hit him. 

Lever.

________________________________________________

Beneath their feet, the ground began to tremor, as if they were caught in the midst of an earthquake, and Enjolras snapped his head up to see the walls around them begin to move downwards, sand pouring in streams from the ceiling meaning to trap them inside the room and then suffocate them with sand. He gasped. Shit. 

A familiar calloused hand wrapped itself tight around his wrist. "Alright, time to go!" Grantaire decided, pulling him into a run, Courfeyrac, book tucked under his arm, hauling up Combeferre, who seemed to be a bit dizzy at first, but was otherwise fine on his own feet.

The sprinted up the stairs and out the room, sprinting through a dimly lit corridor alongside which ran several water wells in a frantic rush to find the original crevice through which they had first entered as the walls came crumbling down around them and passageways continued to close up as their gates slid down closed. Behind him and Grantaire were Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were fine right there with them, but there was a sound of feet tripping up, Courfeyrac must have stumbled up, and then there was the sound of _ — _

Enjolras' heart stopped dead in his chest. The sound of an impressive splash. Catching up beside him were Combeferre and his brother, but confirming his worst fear, his brother's arms were  _ empty.  _

Breaking his wrist free of Grantaire's grasp, he turned back and ran to where Courfeyrac had tripped and the  _ Book of Amun-Ra _ , the entire reason he had come to Hamunaptra in the first place _ —his life long pursuit— _ had fallen, sunk into the well of water, gripping his hair tight and crying out in anguish. "You lost the book! Courfeyrac how could you lose the book? Oh my gosh, I, the book _ — _ " he cut off in a yelp as Grantaire locked his wrist around his hand once more, this time in an iron grip, and forcibly tugged him away from the well, ignoring his cries of pain at the prospect of leaving behind what he had sought for so long.

"Sorry, Angel, but not now!"

"But Grantaire, the book _ — _ !”

"Not at the price of your life!"

________________________________________________

Shit. Despite being a thief, Thenardier had never been a fast runner. Not that running really mattered as he got down on all fours to crawl out this passageway, the roof coming down on him quicker than ever, sand pouring around him. 

His speed would be much quicker if he let go of the bag of gold he was dragging behind him, he was so close to escaping, there, right in front of him was the the doorway to the next corridor, he just had to get through this one, but the ceiling was coming down on him and the doorway was closing quicker and quicker and  _ he just needed to let go of the gold— _

But his gold! He couldn't do that! 

The ceiling was beginning to come crashing down, Thenardier had to  _ move.  _

It was the gold or his life. 

Gold. 

Then, he felt the ceiling actually  _ touch  _ his back, and his breath closed up in panic, and you know what?

Life. 

He abandoned his gold and dove through the sliver of the doorway just as the gate came crashing down.

________________________________________________

In front of him and Combeferre, Grantaire kept a tight grip on Enjolras, who seemed to rightfully decide that he would cry about Courfeyrac losing him the  _ Book of Amun-Ra  _ after this entire ordeal. He panted with the effort of having to keep pushing himself to run, and beside him, Combeferre looked to be much in the same boat. As he continued his sprint, Courfeyrac worried for the others and hoped they made it out of the pyramid.

They rounded yet another corner and shot through another doorway, and finally,  _ finally,  _ it seemed as if they were finally retracing their steps because they found themselves back in the room of the treasures of Hamunaptra, and really, the gold was  _ right there,  _ no one else was coming to get it, no one else would be able to come and get it surely, as he skidded to a halt in the middle of the room and said, "Come on, we can take just a little," they could stop for just a few bits of gold, but Combeferre had other plans as he turned back and dove for his hand, crying, "No, Courfeyrac!" and pulling him once more into a run despite his protestations.

________________________________________________

A few feet in front of Thenardier, sliding through the entrance and subsequent exit of the treasure room was a very familiar figure with disheveled curly black hair… 

"Grantaire!" he called out desperately as he pushed himself to run faster. "Grantaire!" 

________________________________________________

Grantaire raced to the doorway at the end of the treasure room. The gate was coming down quicker, and their chances of exit were beginning to shrink. He pushed Enjolras down first, who landed on the ground with a little  _ oof!  _ before crawling through the opening. As he himself slid through the rapidly closing exit, he heard a familiar voice call his name. 

"Grantaire! Grantaire!"

_ Thenardier.  _

He watched as Combeferre and Courfeyrac both dove through the narrowing slit, giving him a questioning look when they saw he wasn't running before setting off themselves once more. 

"Grantaire?" 

He looked over his shoulder to see Enjolras panting, flushed from running, and _ — _

"Enjolras, go!" he urged. "I'm coming, just go!" 

Shaking his head stubbornly, Enjolras said, "I'm not leaving without you. Come on!" 

Fuck, the whole world was crumbling around them, the ceiling could crush them, they could end up trapped in here forever, and Enjolras was waiting for him, because he wouldn't leave without. 

Yeah, okay, at this point, Grantaire knew that he hadn't just _caught feelings_ , but that he was very much head over heels in love with Enjolras.

But now really wasn't the time to be thinking of that, because they really need to run and holy fucking  _ shit,  _ what was taking Thenardier so long? 

The slit was shrinking narrower with each passing second. Enjolras stood with a hand on Grantaire' shoulder, casting fearful glances upwards at the sinking ceiling and on the other side, Thenardier made a dive for the slit. Grantaire flung his arm out to offer his hand. Why was he even helping this rat bastard? He was a large part of the reason why they were even trapped in this whole mess, why he had Enjolras taken away from him for quite a while. As Enjolras began to plead with him to just  _ come and get away,  _ he very much considered drawing his hand away. 

But instead, as the doorway became even more narrow, the ceiling became difficult for someone as short as  _ Enjolras  _ to stand properly under it, he extended his hand further and yelled, "Come on, come on! Come on, Thenardier!" 

"Grantaire!" the man panted, fumbling for his fingers, and Grantaire almost got a hold of his hand _ — _

But too late, the slit was too narrow and there was no more chance of pulling Thenardier to safety. Instead, Grantaire withdrew his own hand lightning quick so as not to get crushed, wrapped his hand once more around Enjolras' wrist, and set off into a dead run made in a half crouch, calling back, "Goodbye, Thenardier!" as the gate shut closed, trapping Thenardier on the other side, and the ceiling came down quicker on him and Enjolras, running for the exit that would let them live.

________________________________________________

He couldn't believe it. Grantaire had left him, he had just left him to die, shut him out. 

_ How could he do this to him? _

Dejected, he made his way back to the treasure room. On all four sides, all the gates had shut, trapping him inside forever.

The ceiling was still coming down upon him, but miracle of miracles, by the sheer number of mirrors and bronze plates in the room, when the ceiling clashed with them, they wielded enough weight to halt the ceiling's motion and keep it from crushing him.

He swallowed at the prospect. 

No food. No water. He would die in here and no one would ever know. 

Oh well, of all rooms to be trapped in, this wasn't too bad, right. 

The sound of scampering drew his attention to something moving near his feet, and it--it was a--

He staggered back at the sight of it. It was a beetle--one of  _ those  _ beetles. But behind him was more of the same scampering sound, and so to was it there to the left of him and he turned to his right and they were there too, and it was an entire floor-full of those beetles, all scampering towards  _ him,  _ their new  _ meal _ , and he was  _ trapped _ in here with them and _ — _

No one did ever hear Thenardier's agonized scream in the end. It does seem to be that he got his comeuppance, though, as nasty little fellows like him always seemed to get. Always. 

________________________________________________

When Grantaire lifted him through the crevice and the bright rays of the Egyptian sun hit him, Enjolras gasped as if he had been given new breath. They were finally up out of the pyramid and in the bright light of day, but as he felt Grantaire take his hand again and tug, they still weren’t done running as the entire sight came crashing down around them. 

They all broke out into a run once more, stumbling through the sand as the ground beneath them shook and threatened to knock them all off their feet. Enjolras panted as he urged his legs on to keep running, then screaming out when an archway supported by two pillars came crashing down. Grantaire swerved both of them out of the way, following the lead of his brother and Combeferre in front of them. Camels and horses all fled as the temple, the pyramid, everything around it _ — _ all came crumbling to the ground. 

In front of them, a pillar began to fall, but he pushed on faster, screaming as it just barely missed crushing him when he darted in front of it, desperately trying to get away from the sight. He stumbled, but the grip on his wrist kept him from falling, and when he dared a glance to see what tripped him up, he shot his head back up and urged his legs to carry him out faster as the sand began to sink under their feet. 

They bolted out the archway leading to the sight and fast across the sand, far from the sight of the ruins now even more wrecked, not daring to stop until they were well away, in the flat area of the desert where the camels rested, only then crashing into each other as they halted to double over and catch their breaths next to each other, watching as the ruins of Hamunaptra destroyed itself, sending clouds of sand up into the air, almost as a warning sign to deter explorers from ever treading on its cursed grounds again. 

Enjolras turned towards his brother, gripping on tight to his shirt as Courfeyrac wrapped him in a hug while they watched as the entire place collapsed in the distance, breathing hard and reveling in the comfort of each other’s familiarity. 

Finally, for a second now, Enjolras had the chance to  _ breathe _ . He closed his eyes and let himself lose himself in that slight comfort for a while. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at Courfeyrac and smiled, laughing in relief. 

Then, something _ —a wrapped hand— _ came down on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and they both jumped and screamed, Courfeyrac tightening his arms and whirling him away, before the sound of a familiar, bellowing laugh made them aware of who it really was. 

Enjolras opened his eyes and glared at Bahorel, who was caught in a fit of laughter, the rest _ — _ Joly, Boss, Jehan, Feuilly _ — _ right behind him, and while Enjolras would have liked to be annoyed, he found his overwhelming sense of relief that his friends had made it out alive was too powerful to let him truly be. 

Courfeyrac huffed as he let Enjolras extricate himself from his arms and walk back to Grantaire’s side. “Oh, thank you so much for that,” his brother said irritatedly.

Bahorel was still attempting to recover from his fit of roaring laughter. “You should have see your faces, the both of you, oh my God--” 

Rolling their eyes, Jehan shoved Bahorel out of the way, sending him falling into the sand with a loud  _ hey!  _ They made their way to Enjolras and took his hands in their own. 

“We’re glad to see you haven’t been turned into a mummy,” they said softly, smiling at him. 

Enjolras grinned. “I’m glad you all made it out, I was worried,” he responded, squeezing Jehan’s hands.

Feuilly let out a whistle. “So, it’s all gone then?” 

Combeferre shifted his gaze to the speck in the distance that had once been the pyramid. “Yes, seems as if.”

Bossuet shook his head disappointedly. “This is just my luck. Of course we go home empty handed.”

“Empty handed except all the germs we must have crawling on our skin right now,” Joly corrected with a shudder. 

Beside him, Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Empty handed?” he repeated. Enjolras felt a hand on his waist spin him sideways to look up at Grantaire. “I’m not so sure I would say that.” 

Enjolras beamed as he felt Grantaire slide his arms around his waist and pull him closer. He leaned up on his toes as Grantaire himself bent downwards to meet him in the middle, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s softly before wrapping his arms around his neck. Grantaire’s lips were a little dry, a little cracked, a little like the desert itself, but he found he didn’t really quite care, losing himself in the warmth and feel of his lips on his own, gentle and slow and all sorts of passionate. Behind them, he knew all his friends were hollering and whistling and that Bahorel and Courfeyrac together were for sure making  _ some  _ sort of inappropriate comments, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care, not as Grantaire tightened his grip on his waist and pulled him ever closer. He smiled into the kiss, and as soon as he did, he knew Grantaire was doing the same, too.

“Oh come on you two!” Courfeyrac yelled out in exasperation after they had started kissing once more. “You’ll have plenty of time to tumble when we get home, but to do that, we first have to actually  _ get  _ there!”

Breaking away from the kiss, cheeks flushed red with mortification, he turned a murderous glare towards his brother as he hissed, “Courfeyrac!” Beside him, Grantaire laughed and wrapped his arms around his waist once more, this time simply to draw him in his embrace, tucking Enjolras’ head under his chin.

“Leave it, Angel,” Grantaire’s voice rumbled where he was pressed up against his chest. “He’s just in a rush to get back so he and Combeferre can have a go at it.” 

This time, the entire group broke out into a fit of laughter, all but Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who each turned red. 

________________________________________________

In a mirror of their journey to Hamunaptra the first time, each of them had to double up on each camel they found resting in the sand. Grantaire smiled when Enjolras laughed as he boosted him up, Grantaire wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist once more and pressing a series of kisses on the side of his neck from the angle at which he sat, Enjolras complaining of it with only half the heart to do so. 

Grantaire’s original pursuit when he first landed in the sands of Hamunaptra was to find gold and make his life richer. 

Turns out, he found something better. 

________________________________________________

Not that we would actually let out heroes leave empty handed. 

Remember Thenardier’s first sack of gold? The one he attached to a camel right before his greed led him to wander once more into the pyramid? 

Looks like the crew is in for a big surprise when Grantaire dismounts from the camel he and Enjolras rode and looks to the camel’s side to investigate the jangling noise that annoyed him all throughout the ride back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they all lived happily, because I'm a sap like that. The first thing Enjolras does when he gets home (after they all get their injuries checked over by Combeferre and Joly, and they shower and all of course) is NOT tumble with Grantaire. Instead, he cuddles with his poor kitty Bastet, much to Grantaire's annoyance. But they reach a compromise: Grantaire has Enjolras sit in his lap so he can cuddle with Enjolras that way, and then Enjolras has his cat sit in his lap so he can cuddle with her, and it's a three-way cuddlefest. 
> 
> For all his newly gained knowledge and discoveries made on his adventure, the Bembridge Scholars finally make Enjolras an official scholar, but Enjolras continues to work at the Cairo Museum of Antiquities, where he later replaces Valjean as curator once he retires. Though, he still loves working in the library, too, and he won’t let any of his scholarly colleagues look down upon people with positions such as being librarians in the world of academia, because goddamnit, those people are hella important. He also begins to write an academic book based on his discoveries and insights. 
> 
> Enjolras and Grantaire get married after a few years and so too do Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and each love their absolutely nerdy husbands to death. Grantaire has on occasion stolen Enjolras' reading glasses and fireman-carried him to bed when Enjolras needs to stop reading and go to bed. Enjolras hisses at him, but all the same demands he spoon him, and Grantaire isn't going to refuse.
> 
> Jehan becomes a professor at the University of Cairo and, after some shady paperwork business, moves into the neighbourhood Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all live in within the British fort. They come over to Enjolras and Grantaire's place often to talk about what Grantaire calls "nerdy shit" with Enjolras. 
> 
> Courfeyrac still works his job as a government official, but his riches and the fact that he doesn't actually have to gives him great motivation (and so too does seeing his husband go off to work everyday in sexy slacks ;) Also, he did end up taking Combeferre to Paris at one point.
> 
> Combeferre still loves his job as a professor, and he's still the one Enjolras approaches when he's sustained yet another injury. Every year, half of ever class he teaches still end up falling in love with him, though now it’s usually accompanied by a disappointed sigh when they see the ring on his finger.
> 
> Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Bahorel all say "Fuck it," and move into the neighbourhood from America as well, because… why not. This leads to Courfeyrac grumbling about having to conduct even MORE shady paperwork, but it delights Enjolras because he's all like "YAYAYAY FRIENDS." Bahorel ends up getting a job as a security guard at the museum after Enjolras complains about lack of security. His credentials? Uh… law school dropouts make for great security guards, right? Joly ends up employed in a clinic and Bossuet joins Bahorel as a guard. His credentials? Uh… if Bahorel can get in, then surely they can make room for another law school dropout, right?
> 
> Grantaire moves into the neighbourhood inside the fort as well, and in time, he and Enjolras get their own place. With their gold, Grantaire is now rich enough to not have to join up the navy again, even after Enjolras donated most of it to worthy causes. He tries his luck again at his secret passion: art. He sells all manners of things: paintings, drawings, pottery, and much more. His work is a hit. His favourite thing to do, of course, is sketch Enjolras. 
> 
> And they all visit each other’s places all the time because they all live near each other, because once again, I’m a sap like that :)
> 
> GOSH. FINALLY DONE. After months. 
> 
> Thank you so much to all those who have left comments, kudos, or even just read the story! Your enthusiasm kept me motivated, and seeing your comments pop up in my inbox would always be the highlight of my day. 
> 
> (Also, I don't know shit about technology, so someone tell me if the links work, and if they don't THEN I GUESS I STILL HAVE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GODDAMN EMBED LINKS ON THIS GODDAMN WEBSITE.)
> 
> Come say hello on my tumblr @barricadebops. I'm always taking prompts :)
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> -A

**Author's Note:**

> Metjen- "the leader" in Ancient Egyptian. 
> 
> Ngl, the prologue obviously includes none of our known characters, but it's necessary if you want to understand the story. Here, have a second chapter uploaded at the same time. 
> 
> Also, it may sound unlikely to you that there would be gay people in ancient Egypt, but I've actually done some reading, and there were actually. Not to mention that one of their myths include a gay couple so. 
> 
> Updates will be every Saturday.
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


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